Legacy of the Gran Grimoire
by David J. Oates
Summary: Novelisation. Four children, each damaged in their own way. A book, its knowledge and power thought lost for ages. An epic journey of friendship, adventure and coming of age set against the backdrop of a breathtaking world. Welcome to Ivalice.
1. Prologue

_Long before Noah built his Ark, the tales tell of an Ancient land born of Kiltia…_

_a world where swords and sorcery reigned._

_Its learning and power were swept away in the great flood, _

_but one clue to its secrets remained;_

_an ancient book known as the Gran Grimoire,_

_hidden in darkness by the powers that once were._

_It is not certain how many copies of the book still exist,_

_ but it is said that whoever should hold one holds the power to change the world._

_Many lived out their days searching the_

_world for surviving copies, but none were ever found._

_It was an illusion they said, a myth;_

_but one worth dying for._

_Buried between decaying buildings in the rustic town of St. Ivalice is an ancient second-hand bookshop, its dusty shelves a world apart from the brightly lit, modern displays of the faceless retail chains. Deep within its stacks, a tightly-bound leather tome rests, its pages undisturbed by human hands for many years, until fate places it in the hands of a lonely, ostracised young boy._

_Within its pages are illegible symbols and visions of strange creatures in stranger lands. A power long slumbering is set to wake, shattering the ordered world we know and bringing forth a new land in its place._

_Welcome to a world of mystery and magic, of clans and Kiltia, of scions and Sky Pirates_

_Welcome to Ivalice._

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xxxxxx

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Tactics Advance, Final Fantasy XII, Ivalice & related intellectual property

© 2003 - 2009 Square Enix, all rights reserved. Licensed to Nintendo.

All other property, including but not limited to, narrative, unique story & characters

© 2009 - 2013 David J. Oates, all rights reserved

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xxxxxx

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This piece of fiction is a non-commercial fanfiction written solely for entertainment purposes. The author accrues no fiscal benefits or their equivalent from the publishing of this literary work.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1.**

'Marché!'

'Coming mum,' the clear voice carried down the stairs, before the thundering of feet signalled the arrival of the boy in question.

'And about time too,' his mother huffed, 'I called you five times in the past half hour. If you're not careful you'll be late for school, and you haven't even had breakfast yet!'

'I'll eat it on the way,' Marché replied. At almost sixteen, Marché was right in the middle of his transformation into adulthood, although the childhood enthusiasm still shone on his face. Flyaway blond hair, which framed clear blue eyes gave him a youthful look, making him seem younger than he was. 'It's just so cold here in the mornings though mum!'

Marché's mother gave him 'the look', before bustling his coat and school bag in his direction. 'Well, you'd better get used to it, because we'll be living here from now on,' she shot back, her patience clearly fraying. 'Take this, and wrap up warm as it's colder outside; I have to take your brother to the hospital.' She pushed a bacon sandwich into his hands and chivvied him out the door before turning her attention to the other boy, who sat in his wheelchair at the kitchen table, tucking into a full cooked breakfast.

Marché's stomach rumbled as he beheld what his brother was starting the day with, but he knew better than to say anything; he had been the one who was late after all.

If the air in his bedroom had been cold, the temperature outside was positively Baltic. Constant flurries of snow filled the air of the peaceful suburb that they now had to call their home, and although the large quantities of sand and rock salt that had been liberally spread by the town's single gritting machine had at least kept the road relatively free, everywhere else from roofs to pavements was covered in a thick layer of snow. It would have made a perfect Christmas card scene, but it was no fun to live in.

The town of St. Ivalice was not what it once was. Where there had once been a vibrant economy based on the local logging industry, cheap imports from other lands, combined with a constant haemorrhaging of the younger generation, continuously leaving for universities and more lucrative employment in the cities, had reduced the town to a shadow of its former self. A few die-hard holdouts remained, still working the forests simply because it was all they had ever known, while the more enterprising types sought to turn hunting and orienteering into tourist opportunities.

While the older generation, and those who sought a more rugged existence could still appreciate the spectacular views of the snow-capped mountains to the north, the vast swathes of evergreen forests and the generally healthy lifestyle the crisp, mountain air provided, it was no place for the young and ambitious. It was no place for Marché either, who had always loved the warmth and vibrancy of the city, but the medical experts had been quite clear. Should they remain there any longer, the pollution and lifestyle would only ensure that Doned's condition would deteriorate.

So they moved, leaving the life they had known and the friends they had made, to seek out a climate where he could gain strength and live relatively normally. Well, at least most of them had moved. The news had come as the final nail in the coffin of his parents' already strained marriage, his father refusing to leave his lucrative job and high-flying lifestyle. Striking out on their own with only his mother's part time secretarial work to depend on, carefully scheduled around Doned's treatment, money was tight at times. They never went without the necessary things, but Marché was sure never to ask for anything more.

Trudging through the streets towards the school, Marché passed businesses and shops that would never be seen in the centre of the city. The major retail chains had never penetrated this mountain town, seemingly unimpressed by the level of spending power present in the local population. Even those which were seemingly ubiquitous, such as McDonald's and Starbucks were replaced with the likes of Ted's Bistro and Ma's Café. Where there would normally be a Borders, a dusty second-hand bookshop by the name of Faded Times nestled between two dilapidated buildings that used to be shipping and transit companies, once responsible for organising the distribution of local lumber and furs to the far reaches of the country.

The school that was his destination was yet another quirk of life here, its thick stone walls and fenced in playground largely untouched by decades of modernisation in the education system. It was hardly surprising that, given the rustic nature of the locale, there was not a single computer to be found. The textbooks also remained constantly out of date, each receiving new decorations in their margins as each successive year of students left their own personal notations; assertions such 'Loz woz 'ere' warring for dominance with badly drawn representations of the cruder parts of the human anatomy.

The bell was already ringing by the time Marché stepped through the wrought-iron gate, and he made it to his classroom with only seconds to spare, the bacon sandwich he'd wolfed along the way protesting in his stomach at the unfeasible speed at which he'd consumed it. Slipping into his seat with a shy smile at the few people he'd been introduced to, he took the time to observe the rest.

Three of the regular absentees, Colin, Lyle and Guinness lounged indolently from their positions at the back of the room, Guinness reading a dirty magazine while Lyle had his muddy feet firmly planted on his desk. Colin scratched himself inappropriately, giving Marché the distinct impression of a troupe of Chimpanzees he'd once observed at the zoo, one of whom had developed the particularly unsavoury habit of flinging his droppings at passers-by. It was quite a miracle to see all three present at the same time, and not a welcome one either.

The diminutive form of Mewt Randell slipped quietly into the classroom, sliding into the seat nearest the door, his expression downcast and his bedraggled brownish hair shielding his face. Not many noticed his furtive entrance, but Marché noticed the three stooges tracking him with their eyes, like wolves sizing up potential prey in the herd. He had only been here a couple of weeks, but Marché already knew why Mewt chose the seat that he did; in the very front row to be as far away from his tormentors as possible, and close enough to the door to facilitate a hasty exit.

Future contemplation, however, was prevented by the timely entrance of Mr Leslaie, who shot the gruesome threesome a look that was largely ignored. He held his gaze until Lyle reluctantly dropped his feet to the floor with a loud thump and Guinness deposited his magazine into his desk drawer. Colin continued to scratch himself unashamedly. The roll call progressed in the usual manner, a mixture of 'yes, sir', 'here, sir' and the occasional grunt.

Fortunately for Marché's protesting stomach, the first lesson was history, presided over by their form teacher himself, which effectively negated the need to move along to another room. It was also one of the few subjects that Marché actually liked, with tales of adventure and great battles. That's not to say that he was a poor student, as he managed to get fairly good marks when he applied himself, but most of the things being taught just didn't interest him; it's not like he was ever going to get a job that required him to know how osmosis in plant cells worked.

'Now class,' Mr Leslaie announced, turning his attention to the students who actually wanted to learn. 'As you know, last week we looked at the Roman empire and how it expanded through Europe, but we also looked a little at their army and the legionnaires.' Most students had at least fished out their textbooks at this point and located their notebooks, with a few exceptions of course. Not that Mr Leslaie seemed to mind, as it appeared that he had long ago come to somewhat of an unspoken agreement with certain students; that he would leave them to their own devices as long as they didn't interrupt the learning of the rest.

'Now we looked at how they fought and why they were so successful, but can anybody tell me anything about how they were run?' The teacher's gaze swept the classroom, a smile gracing his face as one particular hand raised confidently into the air. 'Yes, Ritz.'

The girl in question appeared to be something of a force of nature to Marché, and not a little intimidating. Tall and with alabaster skin, she was generally regarded as a stellar student, although her forceful personality tended to turn people away. Long, deep red hair ran down the length of her back, although the colour seemed a little too dark to Marché, contrasting with her pale skin to give it an artificial look.

'The main officers of the Roman legions were called Centurions,' the girl replied, her voice crisp and clear, looking Mr Leslaie directly in the eye. 'They were called that as they originally commanded a company of one hundred men called a centuria. Although that later changed to only eighty, the name remained, which is why we use the word _century_ to mean a hundred years.'

'Very good Ritz, very good,' Mr Leslaie responded to his best student with a smile, before turning his attention to the rest of the class. 'Now I hope that everyone is writing this down…'

It was a surprisingly good lesson, if truth be told, but then Marché always had a fascination with ancient battles and swordplay. They were gruesome, he knew, with horrible casualties and often brutal melees, but he could never stop his mind from thinking about the excitement of it all. Just as when he imagined the great explorers' voyages into the unknown, while he knew about things such as scurvy and the like, he couldn't stop himself from focusing on the good things about it; the thrill of discovery and the sense of doing something that no-one else ever had. He had always wondered what it would have been like to be there, fighting and exploring as they had.

The good feeling attached to learning quickly dissipated, however, as history was swiftly followed by Maths, Biology and Economics, quite possibly three of the most boring subjects known to man. Mewt, of course, made a hasty escape to the depths of the school library the moment that each class ended, knowing full well that this was perhaps the only place in the school that certain undesirable elements wouldn't follow him to, being under the impression, as they were, that books were contagious and they may well come down with a bad case of learning if they got too close.

Marché, himself, didn't mingle much, preferring to sit alone during class and for lunch, a dreadful culinary affair that appeared to have been dredged from the bottom of an army ration pack. It wasn't as if he couldn't make friends, but he had never felt entirely comfortable in a group, tending to slip away into the background and his own imaginations. Besides, with his brother the way he was, he'd rarely had time to take part in the usual teenage events such as sleepovers and outings, always having to either perform some chore in the house while his mother took Doned to the hospital or mind Doned while his mother ran her own errands. People tended to stop asking after the third or fourth time you gave some form of excuse.

It was with a sigh of relief that the final bell went for the day, Marché hoisting his bag onto his shoulder and heading for the door. Blinking as he emerged into the fading, late afternoon sunlight, he took in the milling crowds of children, the youngest of them bundled up to the ears in coats and hats as they were collected by their parents, while slightly older ones ran shrieking through the snow, pelting each other with hastily made snowballs. One particularly well-aimed one immediately caught him on the back of his neck, melting down inside his shirt before he shook it free.

Turning to face the offender, Marché was surprised to see a friendly smirk and a long mane of red hair. Perhaps Ritz Malheur wasn't so unapproachable after all, he thought, swiftly bending down to form his own improvised missile that, predictably, missed by a mile. His aim did get better, however, as the two gleefully traded shots, laughing as they did so, and by the end he had managed to tag her with a few lucky hits, although the number he received in return was somewhat disproportionate.

Marché was going to suggest a truce and properly introduce himself, but the sudden shift in Ritz's attention and the narrowing of her eyes set off immediate alarm bells in his head. He was, he realised, really glad that he wasn't the focus of the determined expression on her face, as he turned to see what had her riled up. It didn't take him long to find the source of her annoyance, nor was it particularly a surprise.

Mewt Randell cowered in the corner of the playground, attempting to shield himself against the barrage of snowballs that were raining down on him. Spaced out at regular intervals to prevent his escape, Colin, Lyle and Guinness, the latter of which having just emptied the contents of Mewt's school bag out into the snow, stood alternately loosing their missiles and taunting the young boy.

'He doesn't even try to run,' Lyle sneered, hurling another piece of frozen artillery. 'Where's the fun in that?'

'Hey Mewt, where's your little bear today,' Colin laughed, performing a surprisingly good impression of a caveman as Guinness finished his scattering of Mewt's possessions with a good kick, propelling an open pencil case far over the yard, trailing its contents as it flew. 'Aww… did your mummy give you that bear?'

Guinness snorted, having just hurled Mewt's bag over his shoulder. 'Didn't find it in there,' he huffed, 'Guess he didn't want his precious bear to get all wet in the snow.'

Marché had had enough, pushing past the watching crowd to confront the three. Lyle caught the movement out of the corner of his eye, turning with a vicious smirk on his face. 'What's your problem, new kid?' Marché simply fumed, too angry to formulate a coherent response, his normal reticence overwhelmed by what he had just seen.

'Ah, he won't say anything,' Colin jeered, as the other two laughed. It was the sort of laugh a troll out of a fantasy novel might make after smelling its own flatulence, low, slow and placing its stupidity on display with every Hah! 'He's just like a little girl!'

A whirl of deep red hair at his side signalled to Marché that a new player had joined the scene. 'That's discrimination,' Ritz spat, her green eyes flashing as she joined the argument, 'and I know one _little girl_ who can kick your balls in!' There was a collective wince from each and every male present, Marché included, who made a mental note never to get on Ritz's bad side.

'Hey, no running away Mewt,' Guinness called, slipping something from his pocket while he scooped together another snowball. During the distraction caused by the confrontation between Marché, Ritz and Colin, the smaller boy had seemingly got to his feet, soaked to the skin and thoroughly miserable. Guinness let his snowball fly, impacting the side of Mewt's head with a thud that was considerably more pronounced than it should normally have been. Mewt dropped like a stone, his hand going to his temple where a thin trickle of blood could be seen.

'How dare you!' Ritz yelled, her anger clearly evident in her voice as she wheeled on the bully. Marché pushed past the three to help Mewt, even as the girl continued her tirade. 'There was a rock in that snowball!'

'I don't throw no rocks, besides it's Mewt's fault for being so lame,' Guinness taunted, grinning unrepentantly back at her. 'Prove it, whitey-locks!'

'What did you call me?' Ritz's voice turned low and dangerous, and her expression hardened even further as she advanced on the bully, but Marché's attention was called away by a groan from Mewt as he attempted to help the smaller boy to his feet.

'Sorry, Marché,' Mewt almost whispered, as he stood fully.

Marché shook his head. 'You don't have to apologise to me Mewt,' he responded, keeping his arm around the boy for stability. 'You haven't done anything wrong.'

Mewt remained silent, keeping his gaze fixed on the floor as Marché checked the cut on his temple. As he did so, his attention was drawn back to the shouting match between Ritz and the three, which seemed to be nearing its crescendo.

'Yeah, whitey-locks, just like an old grandma!' Colin taunted, facing off with an increasingly enraged Ritz. 'Hah Hah! Little prissy grandma!' Ritz balled her fist, advancing on the boy with a purpose. It was clear to Marché that whoever invented the phrase "you hit like a girl", probably wasn't thinking about _this_ girl when he coined it.

A shrill whistle split the air of the playground before Ritz could reach her target, who was looking somewhat nervous at her approach. Mr Leslaie strode across the playground, a stormy expression on his face as he beheld the assembled crowd. 'That's quite enough!' he barked, his eyes surveying the scattered property, Marché holding up a shaken Mewt, Ritz's clenched fist and the three usual suspects. It was clear from the look on his face that he'd effectively drawn his own conclusions, and that they weren't far off the mark. 'Ritz, stand down. I will handle this!'

'Wasn't us,' Lyle protested, trying to inject some sincerity into his voice, but only succeeding in making himself sound even guiltier.

'Yeah, they started it,' Colin continued, shooting a self-satisfied look at Ritz.

Mr Leslaie held up his hand to forestall any further protests, eyeing the three with a deep disdain. 'Enough of your excuses, I saw the entire thing from my classroom window,' he snapped, clearly at the end of his patience with the three. 'You, you and you, to the headmaster's office immediately, and wait there until I come to find you; everyone else, I'll give you until the count of three to vacate this place before you join them!' He followed the three with a contemptuous glare as they trudged across the playground and back to the school, kicking Mewt's pencil case out of the way as they went. The rest of the crowd quickly dispersed, not wishing to test Mr Leslaie's threat in his current mood.

'Ritz, Marché, I trust that you can help young Mr Randell gather his possessions while I deal with those three?' His voice softened as he saw how they had stood up for the young loner, hoping perhaps that the two could coax Mewt out of his shell. 'Mewt, how's your forehead?'

'It's okay,' he replied, blushing slightly under his teacher's scrutiny. 'I'm fine, really.'

'I'm glad,' Mr Leslaie assured, before turning to return to the school. 'Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some business to take care of.'

Soon, the three stood alone in the frozen schoolyard, as Mewt managed to stand by himself. 'Uh, um … thank you,' he managed to force out, still keeping his gaze averted as Ritz fumed.

'Like he said, it's not your fault,' Ritz answered, her anger still prevalent. 'I can't believe those filthy jerks! What makes them think they can get away with it!'

The three lapsed into silence as they slowly combed the schoolyard for Mewt's books and possessions. While some of the books had become slightly damp from the snow, it was fortunately frozen enough that the damage wasn't too severe, although the calculator seemed to be acting a little temperamentally.

'So, Marché,' Mewt finally ventured, a hopeful expression on his face. 'Do you have anything planned after this?'

'Huh? Why?' Marché replied, his head in the clouds as he focussed on gathering up pens and pencils from where they'd leaked from Mewt's flying pencil case.

Mewt blushed, looking down at his feet once more. 'Well, I saw this book at Faded Times, and I was going to go buy it after school,' he explained. 'I was wondering if you might want to come along.'

Marché winced, knowing that just as he seemed to have made a couple of good friends here, he was going to have to yank out the Doned excuse. 'Sorry, I can't,' he returned, noticing the flash of hurt that appeared on Mewt's face. 'I would, it's just that mum's at the hospital with my little brother today, and I have to see to everything in the house before they get back.

'Hospital?' Ritz questioned, a look of concern on her face. 'Did he get sick?'

'No,' Marché replied with a sigh, even as he stuffed all the things he'd found back into Mewt's pencil case before handing it to the smaller boy. 'It's something he was born with. Keeps him confined to a wheelchair mostly, and every week or so we have to take him there for physio and check-ups.'

'That's rough.'

'Well, he gets by,' Marché commented, not wanting to go into too much detail on the subject, while at the same time wanting his new friends to understand his position. 'It's hard on all of us at times, so I try and help mum out as much as I can. Hey, what book were you going to get?'

'Oh, I like fantasy books; you know, magic and swords and monsters?' he shyly responded, an excited tone in his voice. 'This one looks really old, but some of the things in there were pretty cool.'

'Me too,' Marché and Ritz exclaimed almost at the same time, before turning to each other and smiling. 'Tell you what,' he suggested, 'why don't you both come over tonight; it should only take me an hour or so to get everything done?'

'Me?' Ritz questioned, seemingly shocked at his request. 'Well, okay … I guess I don't have any other plans.'

'Are you sure it's okay?' Mewt asked, his voice hesitant.

'Absolutely,' Marché replied, glad for once that the friends he had seemingly made not only shared one of his interests, but also appeared to understand the responsibilities that his brother's condition left him with. 'I'm sure Doned would love to see it as well; he goes through books far faster than I ever could.'

The three strolled out of the school gate, striking up a conversation about which was their favourite fantasy series. Street lights began to slowly flicker on as the day proceeded smoothly into dusk and the snow increased its intensity. Behind them, a battered car ground to a halt at the kerbside, discharging a heavyset man who looked like a larger and meaner version of Guinness. It appeared that Mr Leslaie and the headmaster weren't taking any prisoners when dealing with the three bully-boys, although given the look of the boy's father, Marché didn't think that anything they said or did would have any impact on their future behaviour.

The three chatted amiably as they walked the short distance back into the centre of town, Ritz raising the hood on her coat in an attempt to stop the snowfall from dissolving into her hair. Marché pondered her shocked reaction to his invitation, wondering if, despite her confidence, her grades and abrasive personality had cost her as many friends as the opposite had for Mewt.

'Oh, gosh I'm really sorry,' the new voice was apologetic as three men exited a nearby storage house.

'Oh no,' Mewt cringed, as the three turned to see what was going on.

The man who had spoken was not in the most pristine of conditions, his hair and beard having a shaggy appearance to them and his clothes frayed at the edges. Two businessmen stood with him, one pointing to order sheets that clearly didn't match up with what he had received, while the other had a resigned expression on his face as he turned to his employee.

'Mr Randell, regardless of the … circumstances, we still expect a certain level of performance from you.

Marché winced as the man's surname suddenly made Mewt's _'oh no'_ make perfect sense. 'I'm really sorry sir,' the man grovelled, although it was clear to those watching that this probably wasn't the first time something like this had happened. 'It won't happen again, I promise.'

The businessman sighed, shaking his head as he dismissed the man. 'Don't worry, I'll fix things this time,' he relented, turning to the customer. 'I'm very sorry about this, but thank you for waiting. Why don't we conclude this in my office.' The two of them walked away as the other man nodded his agreement, seemingly oblivious to the grateful calls of thank you from Mr Randell.

'How embarrassing,' Ritz quipped, clearly not connecting the two as Mewt hung his head and tried to be as unnoticeable as possible.

Marché didn't know exactly what to do as Mr Randell turned around, suddenly noticing the three of them observing him. 'Mewt?' he called. 'Hey Mewt, is that you?'

Mewt paused for a moment before forcing himself to reply. 'Hi Dad,' he said, clearly wanting to be anywhere but with the two of them. Out of the corner of his eye, Marché could see Ritz visibly wince as she realised she'd managed to plant her foot firmly into her mouth.

'School's out already?' Mr Randell asked, his son's one word reply of 'yeah' making the small talk between them sound painfully strained. 'So, are these your friends?'

Mewt's gaze flickered to both Marché and Ritz before he returned his attention to his father. 'Um, don't you still have work to do, Dad?' There was a pleading look in the smaller boy's eyes as he asked, and Mr Randell seemed to get the message.

'Ah yes, busy, busy busy,' he exclaimed, his voice enthusiastic. 'It was good to meet you two,' he finished, flashing a smile at Marché and Ritz before striding jauntily back into the storehouse. A long, uncomfortable silence opened up between them, none of them seemingly wanting to be the one to break it.

'He used to work at a bigger company before … you know,' Mewt finally said, his voice subdued. 'After mum died, I think he just stopped caring.' Neither Marché nor Ritz knew quite how to respond to this revelation, so Mewt finally took matters out of their hands.

'Look, I'll go get that book and meet you both in an hour, okay?' he enquired, his face almost beseeching them to understand, while a hint of uncertainty crept into his voice.

'Sure,' Marché replied, sending him a smile as he tried to put as much reassurance as he could into his voice. Mewt's situation had managed to put his own into a better perspective; at least he still had all his family members alive and at least mostly comfortable, even if they weren't exactly talking to each other most of the time.

Mewt smiled back, before shouldering his school bag and heading off in the direction of the dusty bookshop. 'I feel like such an idiot,' Ritz exclaimed once he was safely out of earshot. 'He's probably going to hate me for that.'

'He won't,' Marché answered, taking and squeezing her hand in reassurance. Ritz's eyes widened, looking down to their linked hands before returning her gaze to his with a questioning look, and Marché once again wondered just how many real friends the forceful girl actually had. 'We'll make it up to him tonight, and by tomorrow it'll be mostly forgotten.' He paused, before squeezing her hand once more. 'Friends?'

'Friends,' she responded returning his gesture and smiling, her expression softening for perhaps the first time since he'd first met her. Satisfied, they parted ways with the promise to meet up later, Marché not looking forward to the mountain of housework and ironing he had waiting for him back at home.

In truth, he didn't really mind all the chores, no matter how much he would privately grumble about it. Most of them were fairly easy, if monotonous, and the time usually passed fairly quickly. He blushed when he remembered his mother's assertion that women loved a man who wasn't afraid to do his fair share of the housework. Today, however, he had a special reason for wanting to get the work over and done with, and was just finishing up the final stack of ironing when his mother wheeled Doned up the ramp they'd had fitted over the front steps and into the house. Marché valiantly managed to refrain from greeting his brother with a particularly vile gesture at Doned's latest 'little housewife' comment.

In fact, Marché had to severely bite his tongue when the younger boy shot him a smirk, before wheeling himself onto the stair-lift and ascending gracefully out of sight, while he was left to put away the laundry. Just for once, he wished that his brother would show even the smallest bit of gratitude for all the little things he did around the house to accommodate Doned's condition. He schooled his face into a happy expression before heading upstairs to the bedroom that the two boys shared.

Doned sat by the window watching it snow as Marché collapsed backwards onto his bed, the freezing temperature outside having left him with a desire never to be cold ever again. 'So, what's with the drowned rat look,' Doned queried, gesturing towards his brother's straggly wet hair, eager, Marché thought, to get in another dig at him.

'Oh, I got into a snowball fight with a girl at school,' he replied, not wishing to give his brother any more ammunition, but unwittingly handing him plenty of a different calibre. 'I wound up totally soaked in the end.'

'Beaten by a girl, huh?' Doned smirked, his eyes lighting up at the new information. 'Well, I knew you were bad at every sport you've ever tried, but that's a new low even for you.'

Marché winced, realising the free shot he'd given his brother. 'Trust me, you won't be saying that when you meet her,' he answered. 'Ritz can be quite intimidating at times.'

Any further sibling rivalry was suddenly interrupted by a clearly heard knock on the door, followed by their mother calling to announce that Marché's guests had arrived. 'Come on up, you two,' he called down the stairs, unwilling to relinquish his seriously warm place on the bed.

'You invited friends over?' Doned questioned, an astonished expression on his face. His brother's response wasn't particularly surprising, considering the number of years it had been since the last time he'd invited people to his house.

'Yeah, Mewt mentioned he was going to get this really cool book from Faded Times,' Marché replied, hauling himself up in preparation for his friends' arrival. 'Considering how much you like reading and how fast you dispose of books, I thought you might want to see it.'

'Yeah, well only 'cause there's nothing else to do at the hospital or while I'm stuck in this thing,' Doned retorted, 'nothing other than read or play video games.'

Marché was about to shoot him a look, but was interrupted by the opening of the door. Ritz stood smiling in the doorway, her eyes taking in the two brothers before roving over the bookshelves and posters. Behind her, Mewt stood hesitantly, his arms wrapped around a massive tome. 'Hey guys,' she announced before walking into the room and closing the door behind Mewt. 'You must be Doned; I'm Ritz, and this is Mewt.'

'Hiya' Marché's brother answered, before wheeling himself over from the window to join them. Doned, Marché noted, looked genuinely happy to see the two of them, although it was perhaps understandable considering that accessibility issues had meant that Doned had yet to attend school here, and so opportunities for making friends were few and far between save for his weekly physio sessions.

'You got the book, I see,' Marché stated, observing the massive volume in his friend's arms. He slid down onto the floor beside Doned's wheelchair, motioning for the others to do the same. His brother, seeing where things were going used the bed for leverage and hauled himself out of his transport, joining them in a semi-circle around the huge tome, which was bound shut with a leather strap and tarnished clasp.

'Wow, it certainly is old,' Ritz commented as she ran her fingers across the cover. The book was at least the size of an encyclopaedia Britannica and twice, if not three times as deep. Dust rose in little puffs off the ancient and cracked black leather, or at least Marché hoped it was leather, and the edges of each page showed evidence that they had, at one point, needed to be cut, evidence in itself as to just how old it was. A strange symbol had been seemingly burned into the front cover, although Marché didn't recognise it at all.

'It's weird really,' Mewt said, flipping through the first few pages. Maybe it was the displaced dust, but Marché couldn't help shivering as he did so. 'Not even the shopkeeper could read any of it, but some of the drawings and symbols looked familiar somehow.'

'Look at that one,' Doned exclaimed, pointing to a particularly vivid illustration, although the handwritten text that came with it was largely illegible. 'It looks like a big lizard walking on two feet.' The drawing did, in fact, look exactly like a lizard, and Marché guessed that it was supposed to be man-sized, given the size of the other illustrations, only some of which appeared to have any form of humanity. A long, tapering snout and heavily armoured shoulders led through a gently hunched back to powerful legs and ending in a short tail.

'I can't read any of these at all, though some of these things look creepy,' Marché commented, squinting at a shadowy form with sinister symbols nearby. 'You think this is some magic spellbook, like some kind of ancient religion?'

'It might well be,' Ritz ventured, squinting at some of the symbols. 'This one looks like a magic circle of some kind, this might be Latin or something, and these could be some kind of hieroglyphs, although they don't look much like the Egyptian ones we studied last term.'

'…Alta oron. Sondus kameela…' Mewt began, attempting to read the language. 'It sure sounds like some kind of magic to me, but then again I guess it could be just an ancient cookbook.' The four laughed as they continued to scan through the pages. Despite the age of the volume, the parchment was in excellent condition and the ink hadn't faded in the slightest.

'A magic book, huh?' Doned remarked, a sudden devious look in his eyes. 'Hey Marché, I guess if you could use magic, you'd be able to do better in a snowball fight, right Ritz?' The girl giggled while Marché shook his head ruefully.

Examination of the book over, the four lounged and talked for the next couple of hours, comparing stories and giving their opinions on the various novels they'd read. Doned and Mewt broke out a video game, while Marché and Ritz lay side by side, pawing through Marché's bookshelf for anything that she hadn't read yet.

'Marché, Doned, It's almost time for dinner,' the call came up the stairs at close to half past seven, startling the four, who hadn't realised just how late it had become. 'It's dark outside, and your friends need to be getting home.'

Ritz gasped, looking at her watch before bounding off the bed. 'I should have been home half an hour ago,' she exclaimed, reaching for her coat. 'You mind if I borrow this, one?' She held up one of the books that Marché had highly recommended, and which had piqued her interest.

'Sure,' Marché smiled, glad to have a friend to share things with for once. Mewt closed and bound his book once more, and they separated with promises to meet up at school the next day, before the Radiuju family settled down for the evening.

'I like your friends,' Doned commented, as the two sat down for dinner.

'They can be your friends too, you know,' was his brother's immediate response.

All in all, Marché was quite satisfied with the way the day had turned out as he burrowed down into the warmth of his bed, save for the antics of Colin, Lyle and Guinness, of course. He had gained two potentially good friends and had a relatively enjoyable evening with them and his brother. Apart from the constant cold, maybe things were looking up for him in St. Ivalice. He allowed a smile to form on his face as he quickly succumbed to sleep.

About a mile across town, Marché was not the only one settling down for the night. Mewt Randell lay in his bed, idly leafing through the pages of his new book, letting his eyes take in each image and cryptic message. '…Alta oron. Sondus kameela… Alta Occuria, sondus Kiltia, sondus Galtea.' Feeling sleep overtaking him, Mewt closed the book although he left its binding open. 'C'mon Babus,' he yawned, reaching for the small white bear on his nightstand and drawing it close.

'I wish I could do magic,' he yawned, as his eyes began to close, clasping both bear and book to him tightly. 'I'd bring you back mum, and no-one would hurt me again.'

The sound of gentle breathing was the only sound in the room as the cover of the tome fell open, its pages rustling as if in a gentle breeze, although none could be felt in the room. The pages turned, faster and faster as if propelled by a hurricane force, though everything remained still. Almost as suddenly as it had begun, the book stopped, and with a dark flash, the world began to change.


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2.**

It was the feeling of the warm sunlight on his face that woke him, as Marché slowly made his way back to consciousness from what had been the strangest of dreams, vague images that slipped away as he tried to remember them, along with the memory of a sense of dislocation; as if he hadn't been quite a part of reality any more.

The first thing he noticed was that his room didn't seem to have the bitter chill of morning that he was rapidly becoming accustomed to in this frigid mountain settlement, the second, that his bed was no longer the comfortable sanctuary that made it so difficult to rouse himself each morning. It was hard, unyielding, and something was digging uncomfortably into his lower back.

Blinking away the blinding rays of sunshine, he stared upwards, not into the darkly varnished beams of his bedroom, but into a clear, cloudless blue sky, the likes of which he hadn't seen since he moved to St. Ivalice. His mind still fuzzy, but rapidly clearing as his brain processed what he was seeing, Marché hauled himself up into a seated position, propping himself up with his hands as he appraised his surroundings.

He had awoken laying on his back in a narrow, dusty alleyway. An ancient stone street, covered with a thin layer of sand wound between two rows of flat-roofed sandstone buildings the likes of which he had only imagined in far off tales of Arabian nights. A warm breeze gusted down the alleyway, bringing with it scents that Marché had never experienced before and blowing up the finer pieces of sand, which piled in drifts against walls and collected in secluded corners. From outside the entrance to the alley, the sound of a babble of assorted conversations could be heard.

Marché could only stare, his mind reeling while he tried to think of some logical explanation. He would have thought that he was still asleep and dreaming in his bedroom, save that this was far too vivid, too real, to be a dream. He pinched himself anyway, the resulting spike of pain causing him to rub his hand while he allowed his other senses to take in everything around him. Somewhere nearby someone was baking, and in the distance there was the constant ring of a hammer on metal, not the sound of domestic repairs, but more the clear tone of a blacksmith's trade. The strains of a reedy flute carried to him on the wind, playing an exotic tune whose origins he couldn't quite place, but which wouldn't be out of place in a desert sultan's tent or snake-charmer's repertoire.

Had he been kidnapped in the middle of the night and left here, or was he simply going mad? Marché's breathing quickened, his heart hammering in his chest as he fell back onto his elbows, simply staring around in disbelief. After what seemed like an eternity he climbed unsteadily to his feet, resolutely telling himself that he couldn't stay in the alleyway forever, and that if he wanted any kind of answers, he would at least have to explore his surroundings. Looking over himself, he blinked in surprise once again. These were not the familiar cotton pyjamas he'd been wearing the previous evening, not that he would have wished to go out in public wearing only those anyway.

Marché stomped down in his heavy, brown-leather working man's boots, trying to reassure himself that they were real, before adjusting his heavy trousers, again made from some kind of soft, but durable tan animal skin. Heavier, tougher leather appeared to have been sewn into the shins and thighs, presumably to give the same kind of protection as a pair of chaps. A loose, cobalt tunic of an unknown, silken material completed the ensemble, although Marché could feel the hardened mass of what appeared to be a thick leather breastplate underneath it.

Dusting himself off, the boy concluded that he hadn't suffered any ill-effects from his nap in this foreign alleyway, save for the usual aches that were a product of having slept in an unusual position. Marché slowly made his way towards the sounds that filtered down the alleyway, absently adjusting his sword-belt as he did so. As the realisation filtered into his brain, he performed a double take, his hand finding its way to the sword hilt at his side.

The blade came free of its scabbard with a steely rasp, Marché's eyes wide as he beheld its lethally sharp edges and the way the light reflected from its surface. A gladius, with no crosspiece to speak of and a wide steel blade that tapered to a triangular point, the weapon resembled one of the swords he'd studied in his textbook for Mr Leslaie's history lesson. Marché couldn't help but wonder as to the coincidence of finding himself wielding such a blade the very day after studying them in class. Sheathing the sword, Marché's hands found their way to a jingling money-bag secured on the other side of the belt, which was filled with bronze and silver coins of an unfamiliar design. Clearly, whoever or whatever had brought him here didn't intend for him to starve, if he was actually here at all.

The full glare of the morning sunlight almost blinded him, reflecting off the sandy roofs and walls as he exited the confines of the alley and found himself on the edge of a large communal square. Shaded stands of a variety of traders, selling anything from fruit and grains to bolts of cloth and eye-wateringly pungent spices lined the outside of the square, each competing with each other for the attention of passers-by, who formed a riot of colour as they moved through the marketplace.

Fairer skinned, prosperous looking types, resplendent in robes and silks of scintillating hues mingled with workmen and peasant women in plainer, more practical garb. Here and there, the occasional hard-faced, swarthy man openly bore arms to compliment their scuffed leather armour or chain mail. Marché was glad, at least, that he was not the only one present in the square to have a sword belted to his waist, and by the way that not a single person voiced a protest or even seemed to notice the weapon, walking around armed to the teeth seemed par for the course in this strange desert town.

The sizzling sound of cooking, coupled with a delicious smell wafting from one of the nearby stalls caused Marché's stomach to rumble loudly, and the boy was suddenly reminded that he had not eaten anything since dinner the night before, if it truly had been only one night since he had been safely asleep in his bedroom in St. Ivalice. Sidling over, he hung back for a few moments, observing some of the other customers ordering before he decided to take the plunge.

'What'll it be young master?' the heavyset man behind the stall cheerfully called, swirling some unrecognisable root vegetables around in his skillet. 'Regular or special?'

'I'll take the special,' Marché replied, not having the faintest idea what the difference was, but hungry enough by that point that he could have eaten almost anything. His stomach growled loudly in agreement, causing the stallholder to guffaw loudly.

'Sounds like you need it too,' the man answered, his deep belly-laugh causing Marché to dip his head with a bashful expression. The vendor deftly unhooked a few strips of dark, cured meat from a series of hooks on the wooden frame of his stall, adding them to the skillet with a practiced flick of his wrist and an almighty sizzle. 'A growing boy like you needs some meat inside of him!'

Marché presumed that this was the only difference between the regular and special versions of the stallholder's fare, and the smell emanating from what was soon to be his breakfast was making his mouth water. He only hoped that the jingling bag of coins that had been his good fortune when he arrived here would be sufficient to last him until he could find his way to an embassy or consul; assuming there even was such a thing nearby.

'That'll be three gil, young master,' the vendor announced, and Marché counted three of the smallest coins in his bag out for the man, hoping that he wouldn't manage to embarrass himself by showing his unfamiliarity with the currency. Fortunately for him, the stallholder accepted them without a second glance, handing him his food. 'Enjoy that while you can,' the vendor advised, as Marché took his first welcome bite, 'chocobo meat has been hard to come by lately.'

'Chocobo?' Marché asked, his confusion clearly evident. Of all the animals he had ever heard of, he was pretty sure that chocobo had never been on the menu at any place that he'd ever eaten.

'Aye, it hasn't been a good breeding year on the ranches,' the vendor responded, either misinterpreting or completely failing to catch Marché's dumbfounded expression. 'There aren't that many hunters around who'd take the kind of rates being offered for the hassle of chasing down the wild ones either; had to serve worgen last month.'

Marché chose not to make himself appear stupid by questioning the man any further, preferring instead to concentrate on his food. He had to admit, it was pretty good, with a soft chapatti style bread wrapped around strips of the dark, chewy meat and crunchy vegetables. A tangy sauce left his palate tingling, and his stomach was pleasantly sated by the time he had finished. Wherever he ended up staying, Marché vowed that he'd remember this particular place for later.

'Ha, ha, looks like you needed that one boy,' the vendor laughed, clearly impressed at the speed in which Marché had demolished the wrap.

'I did, thanks,' the boy agreed, wiping his hands on the front of his trousers while at the same time trying to think what he would do next. He eyed the stallholder appraisingly, wondering if he could get any sort of directions from him; the man had seemed fairly pleasant after all. 'Say, do you know where I could find a consul or embassy near here?'

The vendor looked confused for a moment, perhaps wondering what the young man in front of him would need in such a place. 'Well, the Archadian embassy is over Bervenia way, and there's a small Dalmascan consul there as well,' he answered, his expression far away as if dredging the information up from the depths of his memory. 'Not sure what you'd need 'em for, but Bervenia's about six hundred miles to the southwest of here, so you're in for quite a slog; I'd hire a chocobo if I were you.'

'Archadia?'

'Aye, those thugs sent their people down about a year ago saying they wanted to talk peace,' the vendor spat, clearly mistaking Marché's frown for something other than confusion. 'If you ask me, the only peace that lot are looking for is the kind with us on our knees to them.' He paused, while he took more of the crunchy root vegetables out of a crate and began chopping them into manageable lengths. 'We're safe enough for now, but Dalmasca and Nabradia have to be sweating with those wolves on their doorstep, especially after what they did to Landis; you Dalmascan?'

'Yeah,' Marché answered somewhat resignedly, finding it easier to tell the friendly stallholder the white lie to explain his search for the consul than either try to explain his situation or have the man think of him as Archadian.

'Well, good luck to ya boy,' the vendor concluded, giving Marché a friendly wave as he turned to serve another customer. Marché gave his thanks before turning to saunter up the street. The talk with the heavyset man had been both confusing and enlightening, giving him a significant amount to think about. Confusing as Marché didn't need to be an excellent student of geography or the natural world to know that places such as Rozarria and Dalmasca, and creatures such as chocobos and worgen weren't supposed to exist, and enlightening as crazy and incredible as it may have seemed, Marché knew that, as the saying went, he definitely wasn't in Kansas any more.

Turning to leave the square Marché took the time to look closer at the layout of the town. Rather than a flat conglomeration of linked streets and houses, the settlement appeared to be made up of a number of linked terraces, each higher than the next. Reasoning that he would no doubt get a better view of his surroundings from higher up, and that the highest, central area of the town would be more likely to hold some form of council or municipal buildings where he could ferret out more information, or at least a map, the boy began the long climb up narrow stairways from one terrace to the next.

Each row of houses, with their flat roofs built so close together that one could most likely walk from one to the next as easily as traversing the street below, was replete with hanging baskets and lines of washing strung from one side of the street to another, turning what would be an otherwise drab, Arabic style town into a festival of colour, the inhabitants seemingly intent on announcing to the world their intent of bringing life to an otherwise dry and dusty land.

Pockets of activity teemed around courtyard wells, where young boys and graceful women drew water to take back to their houses, while old women sat in doorways carefully preparing more of the chapatti style unleavened bread that Marché had just enjoyed. Despite the surroundings, he was surprised that he could understand all of the various conversations, as the predominant language was most definitely English, despite the wide variety of accents.

Marché paused to catch his breath as he exited onto the central plaza of the settlement, revelling as he did in the warm, dry wind that blew through his flyaway hair; he hadn't felt this warm and comfortable ever since he moved to St. Ivalice. Sturdy buildings that looked somewhat official abutted the plaza, while stone benches took their place amongst a formal garden in the centre.

Using the height to his advantage he allowed himself to look over the surroundings. To the north, a shimmering heat haze rose off a desert that seemed to go on forever, although a vague hint of rugged cliffs could be seen far in the distance to the north-west. To the southward the the land showed signs of cultivation as it rolled on towards the horizon, scrubby plantations of fruit trees spread out on either side of a dusty looking road.

Shaking his head, Marché jumped down from the low wall that was his vantage point, sauntering over to the formal garden where a fountain bubbled merrily, its waters filled with some kind of large, brightly coloured fish. He sat down on a nearby bench in the shade of a palm tree, lazily trailing his fingers through the water and wondering at the fact that in a town on the edge of such inhospitable territory, humans would fight nature so hard to provide what amounted to a glorified water feature. Marché remembered an old saying, that some people had more money than sense, and it seemed that most of them managed to find their way into local Government.

His mother would probably be worried, and he couldn't help but think about Doned, Ritz and Mewt also. The question remained as to how he had got here, been clothed in these strange garments and been given a sword of all things. Nothing made sense to him. If he'd been kidnapped out of his bed, he'd surely have woken up at some point while they were transporting him here, and he didn't even want to contemplate the idea that he was going mad.

He rose to his feet once more, determined to at least check out the imposing buildings at the heart of the town and at least attempt to obtain a map, not that he particularly expected that it would do him any good. So far, he hadn't found even a single reference to any town or country that he was even remotely familiar with. Suddenly, he was distracted by a commotion from the other side of the square. Exiting one of the buildings was something the likes of which he had never seen before. Spitting insults and snarling curses that would make even the most worldly of sailors blush, the source of the disturbance barrelled across the square, startled officials melting out of its path as it did so.

'Get out of my way boy,' it growled, flexing its muscles as Marché's stunned failure to follow the example of the townsfolk forced it to cease its advance. The large amount of saliva involved in the order gave its speech a decidedly rasping sound.

'A... A Lizard?'

Marché could not help but stammer in astonishment as he beheld the creature in front of him, for a lizard was all that it could be described as. A long, tapering snout and heavily armoured shoulders led through a gently hunched back to powerful legs and ending in a short tail. What was also apparent was the heavy chainmail the thing had draped over its head and forequarters, along with row upon row of exceedingly sharp teeth, all of which were bared in a particularly unpleasant snarl. Yet, for all of the strangeness of the being in front of him, Marché could not help but think that he'd seen this sort of beast somewhere before.

'WHAT?' The creature roared. 'What did you say, boy?'

Marché took a step back, a certain amount of apprehension growing in him as he realised that, in his ignorance, he had almost certainly offended the powerfully muscled being that was now appraising him with a feral expression. Even as he stammered a hasty apology, his eyes darted around the plaza, looking for any escape route or source of assistance, but found none to be offered. The locals, it seemed, had found pressing matters that required their attention... elsewhere.

'It takes a lot of nerve to call a bangaa a lizard, boy,' the lizard creature, now apparently known as a bangaa, snarled with a dangerous sibilant undertone, 'and no-one calls Ba'Gamnan one and lives.' Marché's eyes widened as the muscular creature reached behind his back to grasp the handle of a short, heavy glaive, a low growl building in its throat as it fixed Marché with a predatory stare.

The thrill of fear and the momentary paralysation that followed almost cost Marché dearly as Ba'Gamnan lunged, self-preservation instincts kicking in at the last moment as he threw himself to the side, the gladius coming free of its scabbard with a welcoming rasp as he rolled to his feet, settling into the practised stance gained by years of training. His heart pounding as the adrenalin flooded his system, Marché's senses seemed preternaturally alert as he circled his opponent, his mind already running through strategies of attack and defence and pre-prepared moves and counters.

'Well, it seems the young cub has some teeth,' the bangaa rasped, drawing out the sounds of his words until they were a snake-like hiss. If anything, it almost seemed pleased at having a plaything of some skill to deal with. 'Lets see how you do against the deadliest bounty hunter in Ivalice.'

Marché did not respond, instead focusing his attention on the play of the bangaa's muscles, looking for the slightest change that would signify an impending attack. In any other situation, he would have been frantically questioning just how he knew these things and quite possibly running for his life, but high on the adrenalin buzz he could only concentrate on the enemy in front of him.

The tip of Marché's sword was held low, its point weaving back and forth like the head of a snake, patiently awaiting either an attack or an opening in Ba'Gamnan's defences. The attack came first. Dancing to the right, Marché's blade intercepted the descending glaive with a resounding clang, the force of the impact sending shockwaves up its owner's arm, numbing the muscles. Despite the mental knowledge of how to block the attack, Marché's body was still the same as the one that had fallen peacefully asleep in his bedroom in St. Ivalice, fit and healthy, but untrained in combat and still the body of an almost sixteen year old boy.

Marché tried not to let it show, but the impact of the two weapons had left his right arm screaming in protest. The sturdy bangaa must have outweighed him by at least two to one, and any test of physical strength between the two would only end in one way; he had to end the fight before his adversary could use his strength and endurance to carry the day. Patience, it seems, wasn't one of Ba'Gamnan's enduring qualities however, and a bellowing roar signalled an immediate follow-up, probably hoping to catch Marché off balance.

Knowing that he couldn't afford to meet the attack head on, Marché instinctively leapt to his left, turning as he did so to catch any incoming blows. Unfortunately for his opponent, in his haste to finish the blond boy off, Ba'Gamnan had overextended himself, putting the bangaa dangerously off-balance as his target was no longer around to receive the strike. Marché's gladius shot out like lightning, its lethal edge meeting the point where Ba'Gamnan's fingers met knuckle.

The glaive clattered to the stone surface of the plaza as the bangaa howled in pain, and Marché was already standing over the weapon, his own sword in hand by the time his adversary had thought to recover it. Breathing hard from the exertion he kept his attention on the glaring Ba'Gamnan, who had his fist clenched in agony. It was clear that it would be some time before he would be able to hold a weapon in that hand again.

Strangely enough, when the seedy looking creature turned his head to appraise him, it wasn't an expression of defeat that could be found on his features, but rather one of amusement and an anticipation of something to come. Regrettably for Marché, this only served to focus his attention even more closely on the smirking bangaa, so he never saw the vicious blow that was aimed at his head until it was too late. Hitting the deck hard, he shook his head in a vain attempt to stop himself from seeing stars before looking back towards his assailant.

The cause of his predicament was immediately apparent as an even seedier looking lizard than the first slithered into view. It was much thinner, and its skin was a dark, almost midnight blue, in contrast with the muddy-brown appearance of Ba'Gamnan, and its long, droopy ears looked ratty and chewed in places. Its beady eyes were devoid of any compassion or pity, if human emotions could even be gleaned from the eyes of such a creature.

'Trouble, my dear?' it hissed, its voice surprisingly light and high-pitched as it sidled up to its snarling colleague. It took a second or so for Marché to come to terms with the concept that this particular bangaa was apparently female, although from his perspective, it seemed no less vicious than the male example of the species.

'Nothing I cannot handle, Rinok,' Ba'Gamnan growled, picking up his weapon from its resting place and hefting it in his hand... his left hand. 'I would have dealt with the little boy.'

The one known as Rinok laughed, a disturbing sound like a packet of razor blades being sucked down a drain. 'Well, now that I am here, why don't we make things a little more interesting.' She drew a wicked looking curved dagger and began advancing on the fallen boy with a disturbing expression on her scaly face, Marché casting about hurriedly for his sword, which had been lost in the fall. Seeing it laying on the sandy floor about five feet away, he mentally gauged how much time it would take for him to launch himself over and grab it before the new bangaa could reach him; Ba'Gamnan may have been a vicious thug, but this one was nuts.

Rinok, however, was having none of that and bunched her muscles to leap forward as she saw where Marché's attention was focused. She never got the chance, however as two things happened so suddenly that none present, not Ba'Gamnan, Marché or Rinok herself, had the chance to respond. For a brief moment in time the air became almost alive, tingling with energy as the very atmosphere around them became heavy and oppressive. A split second later the world shattered in noise and light as a massive bolt of blue-white lightning slammed into Rinok's back, ignoring the fact that there wasn't a single cloud in the sky. The crazy bangaa dropped like a stone, moaning pitifully as the smell of cooked meat mingled with the unmistakeable tang of ozone.

Ba'Gamnan whipped round to what he perceived was the origin of the bolt, revealing perhaps the strangest sight that Marché had seen yet, although considering how his day had been going so far, that was saying something. A small furry creature, perhaps three feet tall stood atop the low wall that Marché had used to survey the surrounding area, its paw still extended as if it had been the source of the blast.

'Stop right there, kupo!' the creature exclaimed, its voice high, shrill and piercing.

Ba'Gamnan flicked a glance at the still groaning Rinok, who occasionally spasmed as aftershocks from the lightning bolt still coursed through her body. 'I use your kind as dishcloths,' the bangaa growled, swinging his glaive while seemingly unconcerned as to the fate of his comrade.

In an instant, a large, antique looking firearm was in the creature's hands, pointing squarely at the hulking bangaa. It would almost have been comical really, considering that the gun was almost as large as the one wielding it, had it not been for the look of determination on the small being's face and the thought that a shot from that would pretty much neutralise the threat posed by Ba'Gamnan's size.

Fortunately for all involved, although probably not as much so for Rinok, the situation did not have the chance to escalate further as the tramp of feet signalled the arrival of a heavily armed patrol from one of the impressive buildings, covering the length of the plaza in a jingling trot. At their head was an imposing individual in full plate armour, the helmet of which seemed to have been crafted for the purpose of intimidation.

'That's enough!' the leader intoned, his deep, booming voice taking on a metallic ring as it echoed from the depths of his helm. 'Ba'Gamnan, moogle, lower your weapons.' The small creature complied immediately, his ornate firearm returning to its place in a holster at his side. Ba'Gamnan, however, required somewhat more diplomatic persuasion in the form of a trio of heavy halberds shoved firmly under his muzzle. Much snarling later and his weapon was firmly in the hands of what appeared to be the local law enforcement.

'He started it,' the bangaa griped, sounding about as plausible as Lyle and Colin had in their pleas to Mr Leslaie. Then again, Marché had sort of insulted the creature, but he didn't think it was so bad that it required a hatchet to the head.

'I don't want to hear it, Ba'Gamnan,' the armoured man responded, cutting him off from any further complaint. Maybe it was his imagination, but Marché was sure that he caught a sigh of resignation in the man's tone, as if this weren't the first time that he'd had to deal with the belligerent bangaa. 'There are dozens of witnesses who saw you draw first, and if this boy weren't as good as he was with a blade, your head would already be on a pike outside the town gate.'

'I had provocation!' Ba'Gamnan screamed, writhing in the grip of his captors, who proved more than a match for his struggles. 'Did you hear what he called me?'

Marché ducked his head with a blush as the troop leader's attention shifted to him. 'I'm sorry sir, but it was an accident, I swear,' he offered, hoping that the intimidating man was a reasonable sort. 'I've just never seen a bangaa before, so I didn't know you weren't supposed to call one a lizard; I tried to apologise, but he just attacked.'

There was a long moment of silence, as Marché held his breath in anticipation. If anything, he certainly wasn't expecting the reaction that followed as a deep guffaw escaped through the helmet's visor, rising into a booming laugh, though his face remained hidden from view. The soldiers standing behind him weren't as fortunate as their leader to have full face helmets and the looks of amusement on their faces were plain to see.

'Ba'Gamnan, if ever there were a group of reprobates who deserved the title of lizards, it's you and your motley minions,' the leader laughed, making no attempt to pacify the now livid bangaa. 'Speaking of which, we picked the other two up this morning, snoring head down in a barrel of stolen red from the _Desert Breeze_; you'd think they'd have had the sense to roll it out of his wine cellar first before attacking it like swine in a trough.'

Ba'Gamnan, it appeared, had lost all rational thought at this junction and resorted to snapping and biting at his captors in an attempt to get free, a largely ineffectual pastime once the heavy manacles had been applied to his arms, legs and snout. A quick order from the armoured man and the still feebly protesting bangaa was being manhandled towards one of the sturdier looking buildings abutting the plaza, while Rinok found herself similarly dragged in that general direction... by the ankles.

'I'd be careful in future, boy,' the man advised, presenting Marché with his sword, which he hadn't managed to retrieve during the battle. He turned towards the one participant in the event who had so far managed to remain unobtrusive. 'Is this one with you, moogle?'

Looking closer at the creature now that imminent death or dismemberment wasn't on the cards, Marché's first thought was that the strange appearance of Ba'Gamnan and his lackey was nothing compared to what he was presented with here.

The _moogle_ appeared to be nothing less than a very large, short-haired bunny rabbit walking on its hind legs, although a shock of longer fur could be found between its ears. Here and there traits of other animals could be found, as its face was more catlike than rabbit and two vestigal bat wings protruded from its back. Perhaps the strangest thing, however, was the long, wiry antenna that emerged from the top of its head, weighted at the end by a large yellow pompom that swayed behind the creature as it moved. It was also, strangely enough, dressed in tweed trousers and a forest green velvet waistcoat. Indeed, Marché was so caught up in studying its appearance that he almost missed its shrill reply.

'Yes, kupo,' the small being replied, almost bouncing up and down as the wings on its back flapped in excitement. 'He's just come in from the countryside you see, and he's not used to seeing bangaa.'

'Well, be on your way then,' the armoured man ordered, allowing his visored gaze to sweep over them both, 'and try to educate him some before he incites any more brawls in the street.' With a slight nod to them both, the man turned and strode across the plaza, his intricately decorated cape flaring out behind him. Pretty soon, it was just Marché and his new companion, who Marché realised had probably saved his life.

'Thanks for the help back there,' Marché offered, sitting back down on the nearby bench to bring him closer to the moogle's level. 'I don't think I could have handled them if you hadn't stepped in when you did.'

'No problem, kupo,' the moogle replied, smiling brightly. Marché wasn't sure whether the word _kupo_ was a title, honorific or just a personal idiosyncrasy of the being in front of him, but he certainly seemed to apply it to just about everything he said. 'You really didn't know not to call a bangaa a lizard, kupo?'

Marché sighed. It was going to be one of those days. Not that it wasn't already one of those days considering all that had happened to him so far. He had certainly never imagined when he went to bed the previous night that he would be fighting for his life the following morning. In fact, about the only thing that had been running through his head when he went to sleep was just how good Ritz's bum looked when they were laying side by side reading, and how he'd been glad they'd been laying on their fronts with the reaction her perfume and their closeness had been generating in him.

'I don't know much of anything right now, to tell the truth,' he confessed, the moogle seeming trustworthy enough to him, combined with his desperate need to have somebody understand him. 'I haven't seen a bangaa, or a moogle, or any of this before today, and I don't really know what's going on any more.'

'Kupo?'

Marché took a look at the creature's face, seeing both confusion and curiosity reflected there and took it as a sign to continue. 'I got home from school and went to bed last night in my house in St. Ivalice, and this morning I wake up in an alleyway here,' he blurted, knowing that what he was saying may scare his companion away, but unable to stop. 'I don't even know where _here_ is.'

'That's easy kupo,' the creature trilled, seemingly pleased to be able to solve one problem. 'You are in the town of Cyril in the north-eastern part of the Rozarrian empire, but I've never heard of a place called St. Ivalice before; Ivalice is the region that covers most of the continents of Ordalia, Valendia, Kerwon and Loar.'

'That just the thing!' Marché exclaimed, waving his hands animatedly. 'I have maps of the entire world at home, and none of those continents exist; we have the Americas, Asia, Europe, Africa and another one, I think, but none of the ones you said, or bangaa, or moogles, or chocobos.'

The moogle just stared at him for a long moment, the shock, if that were indeed what Marché was reading, apparent on his small face. 'Now I'm the one that's confused, kupo, but it sounds like you've travelled here from a long way away.' it finally replied, before lapsing into thought. Marché didn't disturb him, preferring instead to simply bask in the warm air and relax. A few long moments later and the moogle jumped into the air with a small squeal. 'I know, kupo, you should come to Sprohm with us and talk to Ma'kenroh; he's very wise and knows all about magic like this.'

'Magic?' Marché asked, as the beginnings of a headache began to form behind his right eye. 'Never mind, you can tell me tomorrow, but it looks like I've no real other options right now. Are you sure you want me along?'

'Absolutely, kupo!' it squeaked, as Marché hauled himself upright once more, adjusting his sword as he did so. 'I don't think our meeting here was an accident, kupo. Stick with me and I'll help you out, okay?'

'Thanks' Marché smiled. The little creature's enthusiasm was catching, but he could see those kupos getting old very quickly. 'I'm Marché, by the way.'

'They call me Montblanc, kupo.'

The two walked together back out of the plaza and down through terrace after terrace through the town, Marché having to regulate his pace so as not to outstrip the creature that only just came up to his waist. As they progressed, Montblanc pointed out the various places of interest in the town, from out of the way vendors of clothes and weapons to rows of trees filled with dates, which were the first food he'd actually recognised as being from back home. Marché couldn't help but like the talkative young moogle, but then any friendly face was going to be welcome in a place like this.

Eventually, however, they reached their destination, a small out of the way inn by the name of the _Tempting Oasis_, and Marché had to admit that the names of pubs and taverns he'd seen and heard so far in this place were much nicer than the seedy watering holes found in St. Ivalice. The inside was cool and dimly lit, a far cry from the blindingly white walls outside that served to reflect the sunlight in this arid settlement. Few patrons were present at such an early hour, and those that were relaxing in various corners were fairly respectable looking. One customer, however, did stand out as she nonchalantly leaned against the bar, sipping what appeared to be a delicate tea.

If Montblanc could be described as a walking bunny rabbit, this woman was clearly the bunny rabbit from the tribe of the Amazonian warrior women. The strange thing was though that, for the most part, she appeared human, save for the feral red eyes and rabbit-like teeth. Lithe, slim and supple, with high heeled boots and leather clothing designed to reveal more than it covered, she was guaranteed to catch the eye of any red-blooded male in the vicinity, particularly as she easily topped six feet tall; and that was without the two large, white and exceedingly furry rabbit ears that gracefully rose a foot above her head.

'Krjn,' Montblanc called as he entered, moving over to greet her. Marché tried not to show his amusement at the disparity in size between the two strangely mismatched friends. The woman's gaze flicked over to him, one eyebrow raising questioningly.

'Another waif and stray, gallant leader?' she questioned, and although it was clear that she had tried to take the sting out of her words with an undertone of humour, Marché couldn't help but wince, for that was exactly what he was at the moment.

'I jest,' she apologised, moving over to greet him. 'I meant nothing of it save that our mutual acquaintance here has a penchant for helping people. I am Krjn, clan-mate to Montblanc.'

'Nice to meet you,' Marché responded, making sure to keep his gaze fixed on safe territory. 'I'm Marché, and Montblanc has offered to let me travel with him to meet someone called Ma'kenroh that might be able to help me.'

They moved to the bar, continuing their introductions as they went, where Montblanc had somehow managed to manoeuvre himself onto one of the high barstools. At the young moogle's urging, and with a few false starts with the currency, Marché secured a room for the following night, paying the innkeeper fifteen gil up front for bed and breakfast, which seemed fairly reasonable to him, although he made a mental note to count out just how much money he had later. 'We'll be leaving right after breakfast for Sprohm, kupo, so you should buy anything you need here today.'

Marché smiled, thinking that since he was stuck here, it might be nice to see some more of what this strange world had to offer before finding a way home; the surrounding countryside did look beautiful after all.

'Thanks, I might just do that,' he replied, although all he wanted to do at that moment was find some solitude to deal with the events of the morning. 'I think I might freshen up first though.'

'Head up to your room, young master,' the innkeeper called from across the bar, sliding a tarnished key over to him. 'I'll have my niece bring some hot water up for you.'

Marché didn't need to be told twice, bidding good day to Montblanc and Krjn before ascending the wooden stairs to the upper floor. If he had been any less stressed, any less emotionally drained, he would have recognised the outright flirting of the coyly smiling, healthily proportioned girl who brought him a steaming bowl of water and wash cloth, offering herself to him in a way that made it blindingly obvious what it was she wanted with him. On any other day he would have considered himself as lucky as a lottery winner and thoroughly enjoyed a right of passage as ancient as mankind itself. As it was, he thanked her, tipped her a gil and sent her on her way.

He made an attempt to wash his hands until he noticed just how badly they were shaking now he was alone. Mentally exhausted, he collapsed back down on the bed, staring down at them. He had almost been killed that day, for no crime more egregious than an accidental insult, and would have been had his transport to this realm not seen fit to suitably arm him. Idly, he drew the gladius from its scabbard, raising the blade in front of him. He knew how to use this, even though he'd never wielded one in his life, save for the usual games of young boys with sticks and dreams of heroes. Just looking at its lethal edges, his mind ran through katas and exercises, thrusts and parries, just as easily as if he'd been training since he could walk. Nothing made sense any more.

His eyes were drawn to a thin rivulet of dried blood that traced a course up its length from its tip; Ba'Gamnan's blood. The sword fell from his fingers to the wooden floor with a thud, as he buried his head in his hands, the events of the day catching up with him. He knew that, had the opportunity arisen, and in the heat of battle and adrenalin, his training would have killed the bangaa... he would have killed the bangaa. He sat for a long time, shoulders silently shaking as he tried to make sense of it all.


	4. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3.**

'Hyah!' Marché bounded to the side as the wolf-like creature that had leapt at him gave a last keening moan before keeling over to the side and expiring, the gladius having scored a nasty wound right down the soft flesh of its stomach. Wolf-like, was about where the similarity ended, however, considering the creatures were a good size bigger, with leopard spots, crimson fur and rather intimidating protruding fangs.

He surveyed the field of battle to check the progress of his companions, who were hanging back and allowing him to take the more physical lead, which made sense considering that he was the only one wielding a close-range weapon. Krjn expertly, and almost with some disdain, shot one of her long arrows through the skull of yet another of the slavering, stinking beasts while Montblanc brought his oversized firearm to bear on another.

Satisfied that they would come to no harm, he shot a withering glare at the cause of the morning's entertainment; a small, ugly looking goblin creature with brownish skin that was currently jumping up and down like a three year old throwing a tantrum. Touching his fingers to the shallow, clawed gash on his face that was currently stinging like mad, Marché bared his teeth at the creature that had set the wolf pack on them, advancing with his sword in hand. It had started off as such a nice day as well, and the boy couldn't help but smirk to himself as he remembered the way that it had begun.

He had woken to the pale hues of the first pre-dawn light seeping through the filmy curtains to tint the room with an almost luminescent glow. A warm weight was pressed intimately against his side, and a large smile made its way to his face as he stared up at the ceiling, disconnected images of the night before revisiting his mind.

The innkeeper's niece, it seemed, was a particularly persistent sort of girl, especially once the whispers and rumours concerning his confrontation with Ba'Gamnan had begun the rounds of the local gossip mongers, no doubt growing more incredulous with every telling. Composure regained once more after his breakdown, he had totalled up the amount of money he had available to him, about five hundred gil before he had paid for his breakfast and room. It wouldn't last him long if he kept staying at an inn every night, but it would serve for a few weeks, even though he sincerely hoped it wouldn't take that long for him to get home.

Setting aside a reasonable amount to buy essentials necessary for an extended journey, he had once again set out into the scorching heat of the day, enjoying the sights, sounds and smells of the small outpost. Were it not for the fact that he was lost in an unfamiliar world, separated from his family and friends, it would have been an excellent place to take a vacation, the buzz of activity and the new sensations assaulting his senses making him feel truly alive. On a whim, he bought a parcel of ripe dates, savouring the taste and the chewy moisture as he wandered from stall to stall and through crowded streets and marketplaces.

Now that he looked more closely, he could easily identify the occasional non-human traveller, although the majority of the residents of this desert town were relatively normal. Two moogles conversed in high tones in the shade of an alcove, their pompoms shaking wildly as they gesticulated. Elsewhere, a lone viera stretched languorously on a terrace wall as she allowed the warmth of the sun to play over her features while a stocky, grey, pig-like creature with a large horn in the middle of its forehead grunted and squealed as it stumped around on its hind legs, loading heavy crates onto a nearby handcart.

Taking a pointed sniff at one armpit, Marché wisely invested in a bar of rough, crudely made soap, a washcloth and shaving kit, although once he took a look at the wickedly sharp cut-throat blade on the razor he had purchased he was glad that he didn't need to shave all that often yet; _the best a man can get_ it was not. Still, he would have to learn if he didn't want to be both uncomfortable and offend his new companions. Strangely enough the man who sold him his razor also did quite a side business in cheaply forged swords, and his newly acquired knowledge of such things, which seemed to almost bubble under the surface of his conscious thoughts at times, urged him to add some oil and a whetstone to properly care for his new blade.

He helped himself to water from one of the wells as the sun rose higher into the sky, taking long gulps from a communal cup. Two workmen stood nearby, leaning on their tools as they groused in the true traditions of the manual labourer, roundly complaining about their master, the heat, their master, their pay and their master. For all of the strangeness of this new world, it was reassuring to see that there were some universal traits such as complaining about the boss, and their conversation hovered at the edge of his consciousness until a new topic piqued his curiosity.

'Blasted Judges,' the first spat, as if the word itself caused a sour taste in his mouth, 'clanking round town with their thugs like they own the place.'

'Aye, I saw one earlier, dragging in that Ba'Gamnan and his cronies.' The second took a long swill of water from a wineskin at his belt before grunting his answer. 'Not that he didn't deserve it, but I heard they belted the hell out of him; never would have happened when old Zamma was in charge.'

Marché might have been a little biased, but he couldn't help but be grateful for the appearance of the armoured law enforcement officer and his men. While Montblanc had done his part, they had certainly corralled the vicious bangaa before he could cause any more mischief.

'Personally, I was glad he was there,' Marché interjected, feeling the need to defend the man, who at the end of the day had only been doing his job. 'No idea what you heard, but Ba'Gamnan was trying to bite their arms off, and he nearly took my head off, so I don't feel much sympathy for him; besides, I don't see you volunteering to do his job.' It was somewhat uncharacteristic for him, he knew, to step up in such a manner, but the confrontation had shaken him, and he was determined not to allow their comments to go unanswered.

'Bah,' one of the two growled, turning his attention to the interloper in their conversation. 'So you were the one, were you. Wouldn't have expected a clanner to have much to do with that lot, with all those blasted laws the palace keeps spewing lately.'

'Laws are what keep people like him off the streets,' Marché shrugged, although he was starting to get the nagging feeling that he was in slightly over his head. 'If you don't have laws then how do you keep order in town?'

'Too many bloody laws if you ask me,' the other workman retorted, hooking his wineskin back onto his belt. 'Why the hell we taking up with these blasted Archadian ideas anyway; nothing wrong with how we did things before.'

The two shot Marché one last withering glare before stalking off, hefting their tools with them as they returned to work. Marché drained the last of the water from his cup, now slightly lukewarm before resuming his exploration of the town, obtaining a wineskin of his own from a stall that was draped in the off-cuts from various animal hides. The last thing he needed was to pass out from dehydration somewhere on the way to Sprohm. In the same vein, several packets of jerky and other trail rations were added to his growing hoard; he couldn't rely on Montblanc for everything.

As the sun rose to its full afternoon glare, the heat in the desert town became almost unbearable, and Marché retreated into the relative shade of a tavern courtyard, sipping a sweet chai tea made from an assortment of unfamiliar herbs. Life in the outpost continued on, however, with the unabated hustle and bustle of traders passing by with fragrant cargoes of spices, barrels of olives and bolts of shockingly hued cloths. The heat, he determined, was something he would have to get used to.

For the sake of his growling stomach, he once again returned to the stallholder who'd served him breakfast, earning himself a hearty welcome and a heartier lunch. It certainly beat McDonald's, that was for sure. 'So, you find what you needed, young master?' the heavyset man asked as he finished his meal.

'I did, thanks,' Marché smiled, before continuing on his way. It was a tired and happier young man who returned for dinner with Montblanc and Krjn that evening. Not so tired, however, that he couldn't respond when a soft knock on his door revealed the pretty young woman, clad only in a diaphanous nightgown, who immediately covered his lips with her own before pushing him gently towards the bed.

And so it was that he had woken, feeling the rise and fall of her chest against him as he stared at the ceiling, grinning like a lunatic as images and memories from the previous night flitted through his mind; of her lips covering and teasing his body, of her subtle perfume that tugged at his senses, and how she patiently took his inexperience in her stride. Feeling her stir against him, he responded in kind, bringing her to full wakefulness in a most satisfactory manner.

It would be several hours before he would be able to wash, dress and make his way down to breakfast, the young woman giggling as she slipped out of his room to begin her work for the day. Krjn had sniffed suspiciously upon his arrival, as if testing something on the air, before gracing him with an amused gaze that brought a rosy blush to his cheeks, although Montblanc remained oblivious. It would not be until he caught the girl's eye with a shy smile as the three left the inn, fully armed and laden with their supplies that he realised he didn't even know her name.

The terraces full of houses and stallholders gave way to storage warehouses, transit caravans and stables as they approached the main gate of the town; ancient timbers, weathered over countless ages, that looked like they wouldn't keep out a determined goat let alone a hostile force. For all that the vendor he had met had been worried about the Archadian empire, the town clearly wasn't built with defence in mind, or if it was those defences had become lax over a long period of relative peace. Two bored looking guards stood in stone turrets on either side of the gate, their crossbows held loosely in their hands. Marché assumed that they were either simply following the demands of protocol, or that their sole purpose was to fend off the approach of the occasional animal from the wasteland, the rather disturbing descriptions of which, Montblanc and Krjn had regaled him with at dinner.

'What is that?' Marché gasped, although given the things he had seen over the past twenty four hours, he thought that he should have been immune to surprises by now. The 'that' in question was a large yellow bird, as big as a small horse, with a bright orange beak and clawed feet that had greeted them from its stable with a loud 'kweh!', hungrily reaching toward some type of pungent green vegetable offered by Krjn. Although wings did extend from its body, they were far too small to possibly allow them to lift its huge bulk off the ground.

'You really have not traversed this land before,' Krjn's surprise was clearly evident in her normally measured tones. Marché could not help but give her a quizzical look in return, as Montblanc had explained the situation the previous evening. 'My apologies, young one, but I must admit to some scepticism when first I was informed of your origins, however I see the truth now in your gaze.' Her response was just about as cryptic as everything else she had uttered since Marché had met her, and he wasn't sure if it was a trait of her race or just a personal foible.

'That's okay,' Marché grinned back at her, trying to convey that he wasn't in any way offended. 'If someone from Ivalice had dropped into my world, I'd probably think they were crazy too.'

The corners of Krjn's mouth quirked into the resemblance of a smile as she eased the large creature out of the stall, expertly loading saddlebags with their supplies as she did so. In an obviously practiced move, the bird kneeled low to the ground, allowing Montblanc to regally walk up onto its back, keeping his balance as it stood once more with the help of some vigorous flapping of his tiny wings. In truth, the small creature looked utterly ridiculous on his lofty perch, but Marché wisely held his laughter.

'These creatures are known as chocobos, young hume,' Krjn continued, stroking the thing's feathers as it stamped restlessly, shifting two large, empty baskets into a more comfortable position. Marché tried not to get too close as the thing absolutely reeked, and he couldn't understand how his moogle friend could bear to ride on the back of it. 'They are common beasts of burden and mounts in this land.'

'It smelt a lot better when I had it for breakfast yesterday,' Marché wrinkled his nose. A horrible thought crossed his mind as he realised he'd never be able to look at Sesame Street in the same way again; he'd eaten Big Bird!

'Yes, they are versatile creatures, although there are more succulent meats for those who would partake.' Krjn grinned ferally as Montblanc wrinkled his nose in disgust. 'Do not look at us like that revered leader. While you may choose to limit yourself to merely the things that food eats, others may freely enjoy nature's bounty.'

Marché laughed along with the viera as Montblanc looked faintly ill. 'How far do we have to travel to get to Sprohm,' he changed the subject, taking pity on the small creature. In truth, he was already beginning to get something of a sinking feeling as he viewed the amount of supplies being loaded on, and was glad he'd invested in a fair amount of rations himself.

'Thirteen or fourteen days I'm afraid, kupo' Montblanc shook the chocobo's reins, guiding it towards the open gate of the city. 'Sprohm is around two hundred miles away, and we have to stop to complete our mission along the way.'

'Indeed,' Krjn added, anticipating his coming question. 'We have been tasked by the Sprohm healers guild to obtain muscmaloi healing herbs from the fields south of this town while they remain in season.' The reason for the two large baskets that had been added to their beast's back was suddenly apparent.

'Good for fevers, upset stomachs and mild poisons, kupo.' The breathtaking vista of the lands to the south opened up to them as they stepped through the town gate, the roads already dotted with caravans and lone travellers, and Marché prepared himself for a long walk. 'Very common around these parts, but the soil around Sprohm isn't dry enough for it.'

And so it was they had left the arid dwellings of Cyril behind, a warm wind caressing their faces as they set a good pace on the road to the south, eager to reach the muscmaloi fields before the full heat of the day would make harvesting deeply unpleasant. It was fortunate, perhaps, that Montblanc, despite his rather comical appearance on the chocobo's back, had a mount available to him, as there would have been no way for him to keep up with his companion's long strides; even Marché found her pace somewhat trying.

It was the harvesting, of course, that led them to their current predicament, surrounded by rabid beasts under the direction of a leathery little troglodyte. For several hours they had clipped and trimmed the fragrant, oily leaves, that exuded a delightful smell like fresh mint and cinnamon, Marché quickly becoming skilled at divesting the plants of their prize. The first trio of the beasts had surprised them, stealthily slinking up on their bellies until Krjn tilted her head suspiciously, sniffing the air before raising one slender hand, her long fingernails held almost like claws as a blast of scorchingly hot fire roared into existence, the beasts fleeing from their cover amongst the undergrowth, yelping in pain and terror as their fur was incinerated in an instant.

Ten minutes later, although it seemed like far longer, and Marché was panting heavily as he dispatched his last opponent and began advancing on the shrieking goblinoid. It was different, he found, from his fight with Ba'Gamnan, in that he didn't feel anything like the terror and guilt he had felt during and after the confrontation. Perhaps it was because these were just animals, perhaps his mysteriously obtained training was taking over or perhaps he could just rationalise it as being a part of some fantasy novel adventure, but it hardly compared with facing down an actual sentient person, even if that person was a lizard. In fact, there was a certain amount of excitement about it.

Fortunately perhaps, Marché's new-found ability to defeat his opponents without being too bothered about it wasn't put to the test of having to skewer the diminutive demi-human, as the creature took one look the advancing boy before deciding that discretion was the better part of valour, shaking its fist wildly before hurling a small cloth bag in Marché's direction and running as fast as its legs could carry it. The improvised missile burst violently open in front of Marché's feet, spewing a fine cloud of black, pepper-like powder into the air that brought tears to his eyes and sent him into a fit of coughing as he staggered backwards away from the itching, powdery residue of the crude device.

He was still cursing and coughing by the time Montblanc and Krjn had made their way to him, the fight effectively over as they had dealt with the last of their targets, managing only to grunt a response to Montblanc's concerned enquiry as he unhooked the wineskin from his belt, taking several long gulps before using a stream of water from the leather pouch to wash the remaining dust from his eyes.

'Dried peppergrass and powdered bomb-shell,' Krjn commented softly, eyeing up the direction in which the small creature had made his escape. 'Crudely made, but a common alchemic concoction for distracting one's opponent.'

'Next time I'll learn how to dodge,' Marché shook his head in response, before cleaning and sheathing his sword. 'Will he be coming back?'

'The baknamy are vindictive, it is true, but they also prefer to have numbers on their side, so the chances of being harassed further are slim.' Krjn smiled a decidedly feral grin. 'Methinks he was seeking more docile prey than he found today.'

After the brief entertainment provided by the locals, finishing the task of harvesting the muscmaloi herbs was almost tedious in comparison, but finish it they did. Krjn, however, set about the task of skinning the beasts that now littered the fields, efficiently divesting the carcasses of their pelts before scraping them clean and treating them with a pungent smelling oil. She sighed as she moved onto some of the ones killed by Marché.

'I will say to you as I have said to Cerran on many an occasion,' she held up a pelt marred by a ragged two foot long tear down its centre, her gaze landing on him as she looked at him through the hole. 'The pelts are worth barely half if shredded prior to collection.'

'Sorry!' Marché winced as he realised that only one of his wolves had been sent on its way with the kind of strike to the head that wouldn't damage the skin. Honestly, it wasn't something that he'd been thinking of when engaged in a struggle to the death with the beasts, and both Krjn and Montblanc had things a lot easier with their ranged weapons.

'_She_ says that each time also.' The corners of her mouth twitched in amusement, and Marché realised that this particular argument was clearly an ongoing joke between Krjn and the aforementioned Cerran. 'You are quite skilled however, and adapted well to such an unknown situation, although it would be wise for you to improve your endurance.'

'Thanks,' Marché took a long swig from his wineskin. There really wasn't anything else he could say.

The deep baskets they had brought were full to the brim by the time they were sealed and the party moved on. The chocobo, surprisingly enough, didn't seem even remotely phased by the level of its burden, despite the addition of a dozen or so of the thick, crimson pelts from the slaughtered wolves, or worgen as Krjn had helpfully enlightened him. Their pace, however was thankfully slow in the full heat of the afternoon sun and on several occasions they diverted their course to cut through groves of olive trees and date palms, simply to take advantage of the meagre shade they offered. Here and there, agricultural workers harvested their crops from the sprawling plantations, and Marché noticed that many were of the same species as the stocky, pig-like creature he had seen in Cyril.

Roadside wells provided much needed refreshment, and Marché made sure to drink his fill at every opportunity as the heat was so intense that his sweat barely had the chance to form on his brow before it was evaporated away. Irritating beads of moisture rolled down his back underneath his thick leather breastplate, making him decidedly uncomfortable and defying all attempts to wipe them away. The remainder of the trip, Marché realised, would be exceedingly unpleasant if every day was to be the same.

Behind them, the town of Cyril shimmered and vanished under a rolling heat haze, while the road extended into the distance in front of them. Cursing the fact that he hadn't thought to buy a hat, Marché simply concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, at least thankful of the fact that, while the trek was uncomfortable, he didn't have to put up with the noxious emissions of that foul-smelling chicken as Montblanc was having to do.

It would be hours before they would stop again, conversation virtually non-existent as they trudged onward, each trying to conserve their energy. Interaction was limited to acts such as Marché sharing a ration of jerky with Krjn as he took lunch on the move, while Montblanc occasionally handed out wineskins of water so warm as to be foul to the taste, but which was increasingly necessary as Marché struggled to make his own last between wells. The entire journey, Marché mused, was turning more into a stroll up to the back gate of hell than the kind of fantasy adventure he had so often read about.

They made camp in the shelter of a haphazard pile of rocks, night falling quickly and early on the edge of the desert. To Marché's dismay, the necessary harvesting of the herbs, coupled with the fight against their unlikely guardians, ensured that they managed to cover only ten miles at the most. Taking into account his companions, both Montblanc's size and the fact that Krjn had already begun gathering ingredients for their evening meal from her pack, Marché volunteered to collect the firewood, scouring the surrounding countryside for usable material with some difficulty.

It was worth it, however, once the smells of Krjn's cooking, which largely consisted of a thick soup of potato-like tubers coupled with two generous portions of meat that she had harvested from the worgen and had carried with her wrapped in palm leaves. From the way she expertly and delicately seasoned and salted each of the dishes, it was clear that she was quite skilled in the culinary arts. Montblanc, Marché noted, stayed distinctly upwind of the fireplace once she placed the two cuts into her pan, while Marché's stomach rumbled fiercely from the olfactory sensations they generated. Indeed, the small creature limited himself to a single bowl of the soup and a handful of raw vegetables while his more omnivorous companions feasted. Perhaps it was Krjn's skill, but for all that the stallholder in Cyril had complained about using worgen, Marché couldn't class it as in any way second rate.

The darkness closed in around them as Marché placed more wood on the fire. Once Montblanc had done his share of the camp work in clearing away the bowls and cooking utensils, the three sat in companionable silence while their food digested. Not even realising he was doing it, Marché absently removed his gladius from its scabbard, idly polishing the length of the blade until its edges reflected the firelight, not even noticing his comrades actions as he worked almost entirely on autopilot; Krjn observing him with an unblinking gaze while the moogle seemingly dozed.

'What is magic?' he ventured, sheathing his blade as he stared, pensively into the fire, remembering the almost casual way in which the cryptic viera had set the parched wood ablaze, his mind also flashing back to the more lethal manner in which she had wielded the element earlier in the day. 'I mean, I've seen you do things that shouldn't be possible, and I'm supposed to be tagging along to see this great wizard Ma'kenroh, but magic's only in fairy-tales.'

'Are you not in your own faerie-tale, kupo?' Montblanc seemingly hadn't been dozing at all. His question, however, brought the young boy up short. This whole journey was like some tale from the books he loved to read, so could it be that these things were possible in this strange new world he found himself in. Gandalf, Merlin and Belgarath, could he also add this Ma'kenroh to the list; the thought seemed almost ludicrous. The crackling of the fireplace was the only sound for several moments as Marché pondered the moogle's remark.

'It is the mist.' Krjn's quiet tones carried easily through the night air, her etched features softly illuminated in the flickering light of the campfire. 'It permeates every corner of Ivalice, flowing across the land from wild, ancient places of power.' Marché shivered as a warm desert wind floated through the camp, teasing the hairs on his exposed skin and sending a tingling sensation through his body.

'It churns in the dark and secret places of the world and howls its promises in untamed lands filled with life and death, twisting the souls of those it touches and warping their bodies into beasts.' She breathed deeply as she held her hand out to the fire, the flames rearing up in response to her unseen command as Marché's attention was firmly focused on her. 'One may not see it with their eyes in these barren, arid lands and the crude dwellings of humes and their like, but all are touched, and those so blessed or cursed may grasp its power for good or for ill.'

Marché just stared, transfixed by the display of power, his mind spinning as the sheer truth of his situation was pressed home by the impossibility that had just taken place before him. If the non-human nature of his companions were not enough, this casual shattering of the laws of physics was the final confirmation of what he had, in his heart, known all along. He was no longer in his own world any more, and getting home wouldn't be as simple as making a call from an embassy and being put on a 747 to be delivered back to his worried mother.

He was Lucy, on her first trip into Narnia, filled with wonder at the sights she beheld. Only, the wardrobe door had slammed shut behind him, and instead of a friendly dryad, he had a talking plush toy and a cross between Bugs Bunny's girlfriend and Xena. If this Ma'kenroh couldn't help him, he didn't know what the hell he was going to do. It seemed he was more Robinson Crusoe, truth be told, washed up on his island with only the slimmest, wildest chance of rescue.

'Most of us use it for simple things such as attacking, healing and the like, kupo,' Marché's attention was brought back to the present as he shuddered at the thought that creating a raging inferno with a gesture or bringing lightning bolts down out of a clear sky could be considered simple. 'The nu mou are very wise though, and they're the only ones that really understand the old magics now.'

'There are others,' Krjn's voice was soft as she corrected her friend, but Marché sensed a certain dangerous edge to it in the darkness. 'Forgotten ones best left forgotten in the darker places of the world, but too much has been lost over the uncounted ages, or maybe not enough.'

'There's no magic where I come from,' Marché leaned back on one of the rocks that sheltered their little campsite, staring up at the inky darkness of the night sky, idly wondering why it was that the moon and the constellations were the same, the familiar stars burning brightly overhead, free from the usual ambient light caused by the presence of so many modern towns and cities.

He didn't know how long he talked about life in his world, St. Ivalice, his family, Ritz and Mewt, even the cars that drove through the snow-filled streets, which greatly interested Montblanc, although Marché couldn't quite satisfy the moogle's curiosity as to how they worked. For some reason, alone as he was in this strange new world, he wanted, no needed them to know about what his life was like, although he couldn't quite put his finger on why. Maybe it was because without them he would be all alone in this place, and he desperately needed their help, or maybe it was because deep down he was afraid that he would never see his world again, and that his memories would be all that remained of it.

Either way, the pair proved to be patient listeners and rewarded his tale with ones of their own, Krjn speaking in quiet, reverent tones of the wood that she left behind, and of the leafy glades of Muscadet, many leagues to the south-west, further even than the palace city of Bervenia, where her kind moved like pale ghosts through treetop plazas and walkways sculpted out of the very woods themselves. It stood in great contrast to Montblanc's energetic tales of the great machina city of Goug, yet further still to the west, home to inventors, engineers, eccentrics and tinkerers, where every building seemed to be part structure, part bizarre experiment. Marché couldn't help but be borne along by his small friend's enthusiasm.

Before long, however, he was feeling the effects of the day's exertion and couldn't hold off from yawning as the three settled down for the night. 'I'll take the first watch, kupo,' Marché was somewhat taken aback by the moogle's statement to Krjn and himself as he hadn't even considered that any of them would have to stay awake. Given their confrontation earlier in the day, however, coupled with the horror stories the two of them had told him about some of the nastier beasts known to occasionally roam the wilderness, it made sense though. Three sleeping campers would make a tasty, and defenceless snack for any night-time predator.

'I shall take the mid-watch then,' Krjn rolled herself into a blanket, hoisting another in Marché's direction. 'Viera eyes are more sensitive to the darkness than hume or Moogle, and we are not so troubled by broken sleep.' With one last yawn, Marché confirmed that he would take the last watch before dawn before rolling himself up in his own blanket, watching the dance of the last, flickering embers of the fire for less than a minute before the hypnotic warmth drew him into a deep and pleasant sleep.

Far too deep and pleasant, in fact, to make for a pleasant experience when he was shaken awake for his own turn on guard duty. Although he couldn't tell without a watch, Marché estimated it to be anywhere between three and four in the morning as the first hints of dawn were yet to appear on the horizon, and wiping the sleep from his eyes, he collected his sword before hauling himself to the top of one of the boulders surrounding their camp, wrapped in his blanket with the scabbard in his lap as his eyes slowly adjusted to the eerie half-light of the moon-washed landscape, carefully listening for any signs of approach.

He needn't have worried, however, as it seemed that the hungrier denizens of the wasteland were safe in their dens also, the hours passing slowly as Marché pondered everything that had happened, contemplating his future if the nu mou known as Ma'kenroh wasn't able to help him. After a quick breakfast the three set out again, their meagre water supplies making washing an unnecessary luxury that simply couldn't be afforded. Montblanc and Krjn seemed entirely unconcerned at wearing the same clothes they had slept in, fought in and spent the entirety of the previous day's hellish heat walking in, and Marché guessed that he just wasn't used to travelling in this manner.

This routine set the tone for the rest of the journey, rising early to travel at an easy pace, taking water where they could and avoiding the sweltering heat of the early afternoon in whatever shade they could find or manufacture, cautious not to overtire either themselves or their overburdened pack animal. Their pace would normally have seemed almost like a crawl to Marché, travelling for only six hours every day for the grand total of around fifteen miles, but any faster and he knew they would tire either themselves or their chocobo long before they reached the city of Sprohm. He tried to alternate his tunics where he could, taking the opportunity to wash, shave and do his best to clean his clothes any time their campsite was within a convenient distance of a well. Shaving, in particular, terrified the living hell out of him every time he had to use that lethal implement.

After the entertainment of the first day, they were relatively untroubled by the local wildlife, although the occasional pack of dusky coloured desert wolves snapped and howled at them from a safe distance as they passed. Only on one occasion, stepping away from the road to avoid a particularly large gathering of them, did they have to defend themselves, stumbling into the nesting site of a family of cockatrices, Alsatian-sized birds so fat as to resemble beaked and feathered beach-balls, who found it equally as efficient to tuck their heads and tiny wings into themselves and roll over the landscape as they did to walk.

Once dealt with, Krjn once more displayed her scavenging abilities in harvesting the largest of their tail-feathers, to be sold later as quill-pens of all things. She and Marché dined well on roasted fowl that night, a welcome addition as fresh food was becoming increasingly hard to come by and meals were increasingly reverting to trail rations of dry biscuits, cured meat and dried fruit; an unappetising addition to sore feet and tired legs at the end of the day. By necessity, Marché learned quickly how to ration his water, using every trick he could to conserve what little he could carry.

Slowly but surely the miles were eaten up, however, and more and more greenery and signs of life could be found, the number and size of villages they passed increasing as they went along. The hazy shapes of towering mountains in the distance grew increasingly clearer as they pressed onwards and the balmy breezes that blew across the trail became gradually more refreshing, something that Marché was particularly grateful for.

Eventually, they climbed a steep ridge, passing gnarled trees covered in white and pink blooms to gaze out over a wide, green valley. A great river meandered past vibrant fishing communities, alive with the activities of dozens of boats plying their trade, while farmsteads dotted the lush fields irrigated by the mighty waterway, animals and crops taking up every possible acre of space. Replenishing their waning supplies at one of the local communities, Marché took a welcome opportunity to bathe in the cool waters of the river, letting it gently wash away the filth of the road and leaving him feeling refreshed and revitalised.

Taking the ferry across and continuing their journey, the last few days of the trail rose steeply as the path climbed into the imposing grey mountains, home to the fortified city of Sprohm. Marché couldn't help but think that this place was what they had in mind when inventing the word _imposing_, as the thick walls of the fortress-like settlement rose above them, constructed almost entirely of massive blocks of basalt hewn from the mountains around them. The iron-bound timbers of the gate, that while not all that welcoming at least stood open to travellers, appeared to be entire trees that had been squared off and riveted into place with bolts as long as his forearm. Vicious-looking bangaa guards, draped in heavy armour and carrying wicked looking halberds and pikes, eyed them suspiciously as they moved into the city, their long trek at last over.

'This is where you live?' Marché's eyebrow rose as he looked over the grey monotony of the mountainous fort, each building crafted with military precision into the same grey, boxy appearance, rigid streets leading inwards towards a central keep.

'It's not all that kupo a city,' Montblanc agreed as he and Krjn made their way through the streets with a familiarity that bespoke a long association with the place. 'It is a fairly central place for a clan to be based though, and the aerodrome allows us to get almost anywhere in Rozarria, from Port Baguba in the north, to Bervenia over the mountains or even as far as Goug and Moorabella in the west or Cadoan to the south-east.'

'Not that we have been able to afford such luxuries recently, may I remind you,' Krjn's voice was slightly chiding as she turned her head from her position holding the chocobo's reins. Finances were clearly a touchy subject amongst the friends, and Marché suddenly understood why the two would accept a job that required a month's hard round trip with only picking herbs at the end of it; they were having to settle for any job they could get. 'Never mind, I will deal with the healers guild and barter what I can for our pelts and the like, so you may return to the clan hall.'

With that, she snapped the chocobo's reins, leading it away through the stone streets without a backward glance, leaving hume and moogle standing in the street staring after her. 'Don't worry about her, kupo,' the moogle sighed as viera and chocobo disappeared round a corner and out of sight. 'She just hoped that we would have achieved far more by now.'

There wasn't much that Marché could say in response, as any one of the phrases that ran through his mind sounded like trite platitudes. Shaking off the uncomfortable nature of Krjn's exit, they made their way through the dreary streets to a small, two-storey building with a crudely made sign tacked outside that Montblanc cheerfully informed him was the emblem of their clan. A sense of building anticipation welled up as they pushed open the door and stepped into the warm, dimly-lit interior. Now he would see whether there was any hope of him returning to his own world again, or whether he would be stranded in Ivalice forever.


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4.**

'You're late,' a rough, gravely voice stated as Marché's eyes adjusted to the gloomy environment of the warm, low-ceilinged clan hall.

The origin of the voice proved to be a wiry looking bangaa with leathery, dusty-brown skin that carried itself in the slightly hunched, stooping manner that seemed to be characteristic of the race, or perhaps species, Marché wasn't too sure of the correct terminology. He was, however, sure to remind himself not to mention the word lizard in its presence.

'We did not make good time on the journey out to Cyril, kupo,' Montblanc seemed somewhat defensive under the bangaa's questioning gaze, which had now moved on to appraising Marché in an almost calculating manner. He couldn't be sure, but he was certain that he wasn't measuring up to whatever standard or qualities the creature was looking for. 'We did make up a day on the way back though.'

'And I suppose this one helped out so much you cut him into the reward,' the snort that followed was suitably disdainful and accompanied by a long exhale of breath as the bangaa shook its head. 'We'll always be begging for scraps of work if you keep handing out gil to every whelp who crosses your path!'

Maybe he'd just been hanging around with the wrong crowd, but it certainly seemed to Marché that every bangaa he'd encountered had a rather short and nasty temper. Either way, he couldn't help but feel the need to step in.

'Hey, I just travelled here with them to see Ma'kenroh, and it was safer than travelling alone,' Marché offered his hand to the bangaa that was eyeing him up, trying to maintain a friendly approach despite the welcome he'd received. 'I'm Marché.'

'Monid.' While the creature didn't take the offered hand, at least a little of the open hostility seemed to have diminished. 'And I'm heading out to the armourer's, but Ma'kenroh's upstairs sleeping as usual if you can rouse him; if anyone knows anything about anything, it'll be him.'

With that, he grabbed a heavy-looking halberd from a rack nearby, fingering a long crack that ran along its handle as he did so, before ambling out of the door and closing it rather forcefully behind him. Montblanc could only shrug in apology for his colleague's actions before volunteering to wake the slumbering sage and heading up the short flight of stone stairs to the room above, Marché sinking down into one of the chairs next to the crackling fireplace.

Looking around, there was an oddly mismatched, but at the same time comfortable feel to the room. The windows, covered in a thick layer of dust, were mere thin slits that let only a glow of faint light through, most of the illumination coming from the flickering fire. Faded tapestries hung from the walls and a number of fur rugs from an assortment of different animals were strewn across the stone floor, particularly around the congregation of worn and battered armchairs in front of the fireplace. A crudely constructed dining table and half a dozen chairs, hewn from some darkly stained wood, took up the space at the far end of the room next to a well-used cooking range, above which dangled a gleaming array of pots and pans.

The low ceiling, so low in fact that Marché was sure that Krjn's ears would easily brush the stones, coupled with the lack of light and the pervading heat from the fireplace gave the room an inherently cozy feel, and after two weeks on the road Marché found himself quickly nodding off as he was able to really relax for the first time. He swiftly shook himself awake, however, as he reminded himself of the reason he'd come to this place, and a nervous sensation began to build up inside him as a noise from above told him that someone was descending the stairs from the upper floor.

By this time, however, Marché was quickly becoming used to the idea that the description 'someone' had a wide range of interpretations in Ivalice. When Montblanc had told him of the powerful and wise sage that may be able to help him, he'd immediately had visions of a venerable old wizard like Gandalf or Merlin. Ma'kenroh seemed to carry himself in much the same way, of course, if you overlooked the small fact that he closely resembled an old English sheepdog.

With his body hunched over even more than the bangaa Marché had encountered, the nu mou barely stood any taller than Montblanc himself, although he was significantly stockier. With a shaggy coat of white hair and heavy canine head, Marché had a hard time reconciling the creature that slowly descended the staircase with the great magicians of legend. About the only similarity were his elaborate robes and the gnarled oaken staff it grasped in one forepaw, although whether the latter was some mystical focus of power of merely an old walking stick Marché couldn't tell.

'Peace, young hume-child,' the creature motioned him back into his seat as Marché rose to greet him. 'Your journey has been taxing, and your circumstances for being here more taxing still, I would think.'

Marché sat on the edge of his seat as the sage stopped in front of him, the ruddy firelight casting his features into sharp relief. Montblanc, it seemed, had chosen to remain upstairs to allow them to hold their discussion in private, perhaps knowing that this was something Marché would have to face by himself.

'It's going to sound a little unbelievable,' Marché leaned forward in his seat. Seated as he was, his face was on the same level as the being standing before him, its large eyes beholding him with a calm, inscrutable gaze.

'Many things are unbelievable to those who do not wish to believe, hume child,' Ma'kenroh's voice was almost melodic, his expression and bearing unchanging as he responded. 'Belief, however, is the first step on the road to understanding, and that is why you are here, is it not?'

And so Marché told him everything. He told of his home and how Ivalice was so foreign to him, how magic wasn't real and how beings such as moogles, bangaa and nu mou didn't exist outside of storybooks. He recalled in great detail the morning that he woke up alone in an alleyway in Cyril, and of the night before relaxing with his friends. It was only then that he finally realised exactly where he had seen each and every one of the races and creatures he'd encountered in the days since he had arrived; within the pages of Mewt's ancient book.

When he had finished, settling back into his chair with his mouth dry from talking, he looked over at the nu mou hopeful of anything that could be of help, but his hopes were quickly dashed by the expression on Ma'kenroh's face.

'Unfortunately, you are right to be downcast young one, as I am afraid that I have little wisdom to impart save for what you have already deduced on your own.' he shook his head and sighed, clearly unfamiliar with not having all the answers. It was about what Marché had expected, given the kind of luck he'd had so far, but it came as a blow nonetheless.

'There are many powerful tomes of magic in existence, although I have never heard of one that can perform such a feat,' he held the nu mou's gaze as Ma'kenroh continued, the room otherwise quiet save for the crackling of the logs as they burned in the fireplace. 'The knowledge and apparel you gained upon your arrival does suggest some form of sentience or design behind this, which offers hope if you can seek it, although whether that intention is malevolent or benign, I cannot say.'

Ma'kenroh made as if he were to say more as Marché rested his head in his hands, raking his fingers through his hair. Instead, he awkwardly patted him on the arm before padding back up the stone staircase, the silence in the room almost total after his disappearance. Marché simply sat there, his mind running in circles as he brooded. It had, after all, been two weeks since he had gone missing from home, and his mother, Doned and his friends would undoubtedly be frantic. Not that relationships had been the same in his family since long before his father left, but they were still his family. He could only hope that if he was stuck here, then somewhere in Ivalice, they had been brought here too. It was, at best, a slim hope though.

'Kupo?'

He couldn't deal with it right now, not the inevitable pity or the moogle's permanently cheerful demeanour. The warm, cozy atmosphere now seemed almost stifling and the walls of the homey dwelling pressed in uncomfortably as he stood, muttering something about needing some air as he brushed past Montblanc and into the cool mountainous air outside, desperate for some time and space alone.

As he had noticed on his arrival, a great keep sat at the heart of the city, its back against a rearing mountain face, while the streets fanned out from this central point to the outer wall. Unlike the colourful alleyways of Cyril, each held the grey uniformity of heavy paving slabs, smoothed by years of passage and made grimy from the smoke from hundreds of chimneys. Where in Cyril there had been a riot of colour from gaily dressed traders and travellers, here everyone he met seemed cut out for a life of hard work, with stocky bodies, weather-beaten faces and clothes that spoke of practicality and manual labour.

Marché wandered from street to street, absently taking in the sights and trying not to think of his problems, more than once having to step aside to allow chocobos, pulling carts full of rocks and glittering minerals to pass. Further on, near the easternmost edge of the city, he stood in awe as a shadow threw the plaza he was traversing into a sudden gloom, a mighty airship descending from over the mountains to dock at the colossal aerodrome.

Moving ponderously through the air, it resembled neither the ultra-modern passenger airliners or the Zeppelins of yesteryear. A literal ship out of water, its metallic hull was as sleek as any cruise liner, its sides gleaming in the afternoon sunlight as passengers leaned against the rail, small children waving as they ran along the deck, heedless of their parents' attempts to corral them. Held up by nothing more than three horizontal rings of spinning energy that Marché took to be engines of some description it was an impressive sight, though whether it was magic or technology he couldn't say.

He walked until his feet ached from pounding the stone slabs under them. For most of the journey from Cyril to Sprohm, blisters had been a constant companion, and he had strived hard not to reveal the pain they gave him to Krjn and Montblanc, not wanting to be a burden on them. Now, however, they throbbed with a vengeance as he made his way back towards the clan hall as night fell over the city.

Even as he came within sight of the familiar building, however, he stopped, still not entirely sure that he wanted to face Montblanc as yet and certainly not wanting to prove this Monid right in that the moogle had taken pity on him, even if it were true. Instead, he turned down a side-street to where a welcoming light and sounds of conversation and laughter spilled from an open doorway. The sign above bore the legend _The Jolly Seeq_, along with a picture of one of the stocky, pig-like creatures he had seen in Cyril and working in the plantations, it's wide mouth split in what appeared to be laughter.

At only fifteen years of age, and never having been in a pub before, Marché wasn't really sure what to expect as the smell of alcohol, wood smoke and sweaty bodies, and the noise of music and a multitude of rowdy conversations washed over him. Torches burned from sconces set into the walls and an entire carcass of some large beast turned gradually on a spit in a cavernous fireplace, periodically dripping sizzling fat on the wood beneath. The clientèle of mainly humans, bangaa and seeq lounged around crude tables or at the bar, while a solitary moogle played a complex stringed instrument on a raised dais, his music fading into the background hum. A few of those present turned their heads as he entered, but seeing nothing of interest, quickly returned to their conversations.

Amidst the revelry, a small table stood empty in an alcove near the moogle's performance, seemingly too out of the way for the workers who had gravitated to the vibrant ale-house after a hard day's work, and Marché gratefully slid into the empty spot, glad to be off his feet but not entirely feeling that he belonged. He absently shifted his sword-belt as he sat, having grown accustomed to, and even somewhat reassured by its presence. Indeed, after the incident with Ba'Gamnan, and the troubles they had faced on the road from Cyril, he felt somewhat naked without it.

'Can I take your order, sir?'

The voice was like nails down a chalk-board, and Marché turned his head away from studying the young moogle playing on the dais to address the newcomer. It took only a cursory glance for him to wish that he hadn't. Seeing a seeq at a distance or in a crowd was one thing, but at point blank range was something else entirely. Obscene rolls of fat cascaded down over its massive body, which for the most part was entirely unclothed, revealing a leathery, grey hide that was decorated here and there with warty protrusions. The sight was simply sickening, and was compounded by the shrill, pig-like squeal of a voice and the obsequious manner in which it addressed him. A large, pink ribbon rested in a bow atop its head, but Marché didn't even want to contemplate the implications of that; some places were just too dangerous for a boy's imagination to go.

'Umm, whatever's recommended,' Marché tried not to wince as the seeq shrilled its reply before stumping off towards the bar at a surprising speed. He couldn't particularly help that his eyes were drawn to the tail that protruded from the few scraps of leather that passed for clothing, replete with a wiry tuft of hair on the end that gave the impression of a rather ratty looking bottle brush. It was like viewing a particularly dreadful car crash in that he couldn't tear his gaze away from the horror he was confronted with.

It wasn't long before she returned, one meaty arm holding a serving tray aloft, upon which sat a large pewter tankard containing a syrupy orange liquid that she placed down in front of him with a grating squeal of 'our famous mead, sir.' Not wanting to give her a reason to stick around, Marché reached inside his tunic for his bag of coins, drawing out the two gil she had asked for in payment and tuning out the grovelling reply.

He suppressed a shudder as she moved on to another table before taking a drink from the tankard, reflexively coughing as the fiery liquid hit the back of his throat. Sweet, like honey and flavoured with some sort of herbs, it nevertheless burned a path through his body on its way down, and Marché made a mental note to sip a little more carefully in future.

'I had hoped I might find you here.' The newcomer was at least easier on the eyes than the barmaid had been, and Marché smiled as the familiar viera gracefully slid into the seat across from him. 'Our glorious leader was concerned when you did not return.'

'I just needed some time to think things through,' he took another swig from his tankard, this one easier than the last, and enjoyed the warming feel as he swallowed. 'Ma'kenroh didn't know how to get me home either, so it looks like I'm stuck here for a while.'

'I had feared as much.' Krjn shook her head slightly, causing her mane of white hair to swish round her shoulders, before beckoning to the seeq who was waiting the tables. 'Even the wisest of the nu mou do not know everything though, and you have the skills to survive here until you can determine your next course of action.'

'I guess you're right.'

The two sat in silence for a few moments as Marché digested her words, a moment only broken by the reappearance of the waitress, who set a delicate glass of rose-coloured spirits down in front of Krjn, who waved her away with an instruction to place it on her tab. Marché glanced after the seeq with a shudder.

'Methinks you will find less to interest you in this landlord's relatives than at the _Tempting Oasis_,' Krjn's grin was particularly feral and her level of amusement clearly apparent. Marché blushed red.

'That wasn't entirely my idea,' Marché couldn't help but smile as he ducked his head, taking another swig in an attempt to hide his embarrassment. 'She wasn't about to take no for an answer.'

They laughed as their gazes met, breaking the dismal mood at the table as the pair relaxed into easy conversation, each holding their part of an unspoken agreement not to mention Marché's troubles or the future. Krjn, despite the aloof nature that all members of her race were rumoured to display, was refreshingly easy to get along with, her dry wit a perfect foil for Montblanc's open enthusiasm, and the time slipped by as the two spoke of their past lives, Ivalice and many things that Marché had yet to see, but which he was beginning to wish he could experience here in this world.

'What's this?' Marché eyed the jingling pouch that she slid across the table to him with some confusion.

'Your take from the mission, of course.' If anything, the lithe viera seemed surprised by Marché's confusion, even as the boy eyed the pouch with some hesitation. 'Slightly under two hundred and fifty gil once expenses are taken into account.'

'Are you sure, Krjn?' Marché paused in the act of picking up the small bag, letting it drape over the back of his hand as he held its drawstring between two fingers. 'Monid won't be too happy, I don't think, and I was only there for half the trip.'

'The clan fee has already been set aside, so it is none of Monid's business' Krjn snorted slightly, seemingly accustomed to her clan-mate's prickly disposition. 'Also, the journey out to Cyril took a mere four days on an unladen chocobo, and would have taken only two if our leader hadn't spent so much time sightseeing, so rest assured you were present for the part of the task that was relevant, and your assistance was much appreciated.'

'Clan fee?'

'A quarter share of the payment for any mission we undertake or mark that we hunt goes to the clan to pay for food, taxes and the upkeep of the clan hall.' She paused for a moment to catch the attention of the waitress and motion for another round, Marché paying close attention to her explanation. 'What remains after any expenses, along with the profits from trading in the spoils of battle, are split equally between those who were present.'

'Thanks,' Marché felt a certain amount of relief as he slipped the small pouch inside his tunic. While he had attempted to be frugal with the money he had been gifted by whatever had brought him to Ivalice, between his food and lodgings, and the other essential items such as his pack, additional clothing and hygiene supplies, he'd still managed to spend almost a hundred gil of his initial five hundred. An additional two hundred and fifty would go a long way to extending his funds until he could find a way home.

'Correct me if I'm wrong though, but it seems you get more for scavenging bits of dead animals than you get for finishing the job?' While Marché wasn't the quickest student when it came to maths, even the most rudimentary of calculations told him that the figures didn't exactly add up. 'Why not just spend a couple more days hunting instead of hauling that lot all the way from Cyril?'

'There are some that live in such a manner, including many of my own kin who have chosen to leave the wood, but they scratch out a meagre existence at best.' Krjn's eyes grew distant, perhaps reminiscing about her own past. 'The more you sell in one place, the less reward you will reap in the long term and the local watch frowns on such indiscriminate slaughter, whereas those who perform services for the local guilds, hunting dangerous beasts and taking work others will not, improve their reputation to the point where more lucrative contracts are offered.'

'I think I understand,' Marché's head was positively spinning with all that he had learned about this strange world. With its strange creatures, quests and magic it did seem that he'd fallen into some outlandish Dungeons & Dragons game, replete with a sadistic DM who was clearly laughing at him. Deep down though, he couldn't help but feel a stir of excitement at the prospect of spending more time in Ivalice and seeing how deep the rabbit hole went. 'It seems like a fairly good way to make a living though.'

'Perhaps,' Krjn's expression was guarded as her tone lost its jovial nature. 'But, this clan was formed with a higher purpose in mind, and it would seem that we five have lost our way.'

Though Marché was curious, he would get no further answers as the viera brushed off any further questioning on the matter, steering the conversation back to more general topics as the two slowly sipped their drinks as they allowed the music and atmosphere to wash over them. Eventually, however, Krjn took her leave, returning to the promise of a soft bed and a good night's rest at the clan hall. Despite her invitation for him to do the same, Marché slowly strolled through the darkened streets of the city, allowing the cool night air to melt away the drowsiness the alcohol had brought on.

Finally, he reached the imposing outer wall of the city, making his way up a long flight of well-worn stone steps to the top and leaning on the parapet as he thought about his future options. With all the books of fantasy and adventure he had read in the past, his imagination always had him accompanying the heroes off on their epic quests, joining in with their triumphs and escapades. Always, when reading them he'd wished that the world was more like the ones portrayed in those pages, with swords instead of science, magic instead of mathematics. It was funny really, that now he had his wish, he just wanted things back the way they were again.

He could accept Montblanc's help, sticking with them despite what Monid had to say about it and trying to pull his weight until he could find more information, but he couldn't help but feel that he'd imposed on the young moogle enough. He could strike out on his own, trying to find the book that had brought him here, but truth be told he didn't have the faintest idea where to look.

He stayed there, motionless, until the first light of dawn began to creep over the mountains, casting a rosy tint upon the land and bringing the city behind him into wakefulness. The truth was, he didn't have any options, but sitting around feeling sorry for himself wasn't going to help. He would stick with Montblanc and Krjn for as long as they would have him, or until he found his way home. The boy smiled a broad grin as he turned away to join his new friends, resting his hand on the hilt of his gladius. If he was going to be stranded in this place for a while, he might as well enjoy himself.

The morning air was cool and fresh as Marché sauntered back to the clan hall, the city coming to life around him. Despite his first impressions of the bleak city, the people he passed were generally friendly, calling greetings as they went about their business, and even the menacing looking bangaa guards and chain-mail clad mercenaries gave him a polite nod in passing. The latter, of course, could have been down to more of a sense of professional courtesy than a desire to be friendly. After all, men who make a habit of carrying sharp, pointed lengths of steel as accessories have good reason to be respectful to each other.

Montblanc, it seemed, was an early riser, as the clan hall door stood open as he approached, Monid lounging against the frame as he held a conversation with the young moogle. Montblanc himself stood atop a rickety cart, holding the reins of a familiar looking chocobo that stamped its feet in an impatience to be off, letting loose a screeching _'wark!'_ into the morning air. He would have called out, but the moogle snapped the reins, sending the cart rattling down the street into the distance as Monid closed the door behind him. Fortunately though, Marché's eyes picked out a familiar figure entering the door of _The Jolly Seeq_, along with one that he didn't recognise, and a hasty shout was all it took to get her attention. It was only as he approached closer, however, that he was able to take in Krjn's companion.

Human, perhaps a couple of years older and an inch or two taller than himself, she was still a striking individual for all that she was of the same species as him. Buttery coloured hair was cropped very short in a masculine style and her expression was open and friendly. It was her clothing, however, that attracted his attention the most, if burnished steel can ever be referred to as clothing. Heavy armour plates, pauldrons and braces covered the entirety of her upper torso, shoulders and arms, although her lower body remained free from encumbrance, instead sporting a pair of cream coloured jodhpurs and half-length brown leather boots. Over her shoulder could be seen the hilt of a massive broadsword, easily five feet in length, that was somehow hooked onto the back of her armour, the tip of its blade reaching down to just past her knee.

'Morning,' Marché's cheerfulness was in stark contrast to his previous mood as he drew up to them, the stranger's face curious at his familiarity.

'And good morning to you too,' Krjn's smile held traces of amusement as she beheld his approach. 'I trust that you have worked through that which was troubling you.'

'I have, thanks,' he smiled back at her. 'Worrying and moping isn't going to get me home, so I might as well make the best of things; thought I'd ask Montblanc if he needed any more help for a while.'

'Well, we were thinking of turning Monid into a new leather sofa, so we could always use some,' it was the young woman who answered with a ready smile in a light, clear voice, and Marché couldn't help but be amused at the mental image. 'You going to introduce us Krjn?'

'My apologies,' Krjn inclined her head to her companion as she introduced Marché to her, although he had trouble hiding his embarrassment at her praise of his swordsmanship. 'This is Cerran, paladin and templar of Kiltia.'

'Former templar,' the young woman corrected, extending her hand in greeting. 'So, you're the mysterious visitor from another world.'

It baffled him sometimes, how quickly his new friends were to accept who he was and where he had come from. After all, if someone were to have walked up to him on his way to school in St. Ivalice and claim the same, he certainly wouldn't have extended the same courtesy to them. Maybe it was a side effect of living in a world filled with magic, but Marché was quickly coming to believe that just about anything was possible in Ivalice.

Soon enough, the three were seated at one of the crude tables within the tavern, all three helping themselves to a welcome breakfast of a meaty stew and crusty bread that were probably the leftovers from the previous day. Needless to say, Marché was slowly becoming used to the idea that mealtimes here in Ivalice were a bit more traditionally Mediaeval than _two minutes in a microwave._

'So what's the special occasion?' Marché enthusiastically dug into his breakfast, which was surprisingly good considering it was leftovers. 'I thought you usually ate back at the clan hall.'

'We do,' Cerran mumbled through a mouthful of stew, seemingly having issues with the simple task of mastering the power of speech due to the sheer speed at which she was inhaling her breakfast. She swallowed with some difficulty, largely ignoring Krjn's long-suffering look as she waved her spoon in the air as she talked. 'Ma'kenroh forgot to order in a stock of coal again though, so all that was edible were biscuits and raw vegetables.'

'He is wise beyond all measure, and quite possibly the most intelligent being in these parts, but that does not preclude some quite impressive feats of forgetfulness.' Krjn's mouth twitched into a smile as she daintily sampled her own food.

Cerran grinned wickedly as she shot Marché a wink. 'You mean like the time he forgot he'd left that fire magicite on the kitchen chair, so when you sat down you burned your,'

'Cease!' Krjn's glare could have frozen hellfire, and Marché shook with barely constrained laughter at the image the young paladin had conjured in his mind. 'Did you not swear that you would never mention that incident ever again.'

'No, you swore, repeatedly,' Cerran's eyes danced with mirth as she bantered with the viera. 'I found it far too funny to agree to anything of the sort.'

Marché couldn't help it any more, as a snort of laughter escaped his control and earned himself his own frigid glower. He had only known her for a few minutes, but he already liked this Cerran. While Krjn's seriousness was a reassuring constant, and Montblanc's eagerness and willingness to help anyone who needed it injected a certain spark to the proceedings, there was something comfortable about her laid back approach. It took him a few moments to realise that it was at least partially because she was human, or rather hume as the local parlance referred to people like him.

It wasn't something that he liked to admit to himself, but it was true nonetheless. He automatically connected to Cerran in a way he didn't fully with Montblanc and Krjn, despite how much he liked them and was grateful for them. He wasn't racist, and in fact despised it in any form, those kind of attitudes being just another form of bullying, but he couldn't help but feel closer to her than he did to either of them, and grateful for some human conversation and humour for the first time since he had come to Ivalice. The innkeeper's niece didn't really count, after all there hadn't been much in the way of conversation going on.

They ate in companionable silence for a few minutes, Marché managing to put away a second helping to make up for the fact that he had effectively skipped dinner while he engaged in his soul searching the previous night. Even Cerran seemed impressed with the scope of Marché's appetite as he contemplated a third helping, and it was only the first signs of a disturbance at the bar that allowed him to tear his attention away from his breakfast.

'A hundred gil?' Raucous laughter followed the incredulous bellow from the swarthy man wearing chainmail and already half inebriated despite the early hour of the morning. His armour and weapons, Marché noted, were tarnished and rust-spotted in places, and his clothing was rumpled and food-stained.

'I wouldn't get out of bed for that,' another voice joined the mocking jeers as a young, but balding, nervous-looking man in pale green robes that resembled a silk dressing gown shrank back from the response he had received.

'Comb those mountains for days to get a measly hundred gil,' a grizzled looking older man with a sizeable collection of scars laid his tankard down, before leaving his seat and heading for the door. 'Give it up boy, for if your friend's gone wandering around up there, he's probably already dead.'

With a last chorus of agreement, the ragtag group of armed men dumped their empty mugs on the bar before exiting the pub in a noisy rabble. Standing alone in the centre of the floor, the young man cut a sad and lonely figure as he stared forlornly after them. Feeling sorry for him, Marché waved the man over, earning him a raised eyebrow from Krjn. However dismissive the mercenaries had been of the balding man's quest, he was offering work, and Marché knew that he had to start somewhere in the adventuring business. At the very least, it couldn't hurt to hear what he had to say.

'Thank you good master,' the young man appraised the various weapons held by the group as Marché motioned him into a spare seat. 'None of them would even listen to what I had to say.'

'Well why don't you tell us what's wrong,' Marché took a last spoonful of his stew before pushing his bowl away and focusing his attention on the man who sat nervously wringing his hands in front of them.

'Well, it all started about a two months ago, on the 12th of Greenfire,' he drew in a calming breath, taking their attention as a sign to continue. 'I am Telrys, scribe and assistant to Professor Auggie at Cadoan University, and my master has been engaged in research into the rarer properties of magicite, and its effects on the environment.'

Marché couldn't help but immediately recall Cerran's story concerning Krjn and a well placed piece of this unknown material and the two grinned as they caught each other's eye. The viera herself was not so amused as she noticed their interaction, although the whole play-by-play went straight over Telrys's head, who continued on with his explanation.

'On that day, Professor Auggie came to my desk very excited, speaking of warping and energy fields, although I understood little of what he spoke of.' In truth, Marché didn't understand either, but he'd never presumed that he'd ever be smart enough to go to University, at least not for any kind of course that was worthwhile. 'Before I knew it, the Professor had taken a few research notes and his current thesis and booked an airship, but he hasn't been seen since and his thesis is already overdue.'

'So, you want us to go and find him,' the proposition seemed fairly straightforward to Marché, if a little vague on the specifics. 'How do you even know where to start looking?'

'I found this in his study,' Telrys pulled a rolled brown parchment out of his robes, extending it across the table for Marché to take. Carefully unrolling it and laying it down, he could immediately see that the map was in no way as crude as the badly drawn approximation that Montblanc had used to get them from Cyril to Sprohm, but was a mass of lines and symbols, virtually as detailed as an ordnance survey map, which probably wasn't surprising given its scholarly origin. Some way into the mountains, next to a symbol that Marché deduced was probably a cave, was a large **X**. 'Please say you will help, young sir; the Professor is everything to me.'

Marché didn't respond immediately, instead studying the map intently. The cave that was marked didn't seem all that far away, but the steepness of the paths leading up to it would make things far more difficult. In addition, from his experiences with the cockatrices and worgen on the road from Cyril, along with the mercenary's words about how wandering in the mountains was dangerous, he didn't know just what brand of nastiness could be found along the way. The grizzled old soldier was right in one way though, as if Professor Auggie wasn't present at the cave, he could well end up combing the mountains for days, and he had the distinct impression that this wouldn't be a good thing.

'Many dangers lurk amongst those peaks,' Krjn's interjection confirmed Marché's fears. 'I am already engaged on a mission from the healers' guild to take news of renewed muscmaloi supplies to outlying healing stations, so cannot help you, but it is certainly true that your master's chances of survival on his own are slim, and there is little incentive to make such a commitment to help you for the price you are offering.'

'It's all I have!'

Something about Krjn's answer didn't sit too well with Marché. Living in a mountain town, even only for a few weeks, he had already seen the bravery of the volunteer rescue teams who wouldn't leave anyone stranded if they could do anything about it, and here Krjn was thinking about gil when someone's life was in danger.

'Didn't you say last night that you thought the clan had a higher purpose and had lost it's way?' Marché's accusation took the viera aback as she looked at him with widened eyes. 'How about because it's the right thing to do!'

With that, Marché rolled the map back up, drained his mug of tea, swung his pack onto his back and marched purposefully out of the inn, heading down the street in the direction of Sprohm's main gate. He had gone perhaps a couple of hundred yards before a shout behind him caused him to stop and turn around. Looking entirely at ease in her heavy, gleaming armour, Cerran jogged the remaining distance to catch up to him, a broad smile on her face. Marché greeted her with a quizzical expression, wondering why she had followed him.

'Like you said, it's the right thing to do,' Marché broke into a grin that rivalled his new friend's as he extended a hand to her.

'Let's go!'


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5.**

The mountainous air was cool and clear, with a slight breeze to aid them in their ascent of the narrow pass as they climbed higher and higher. Birds of prey called their haunting cries in the quiet of the morning as the trail stretched on ahead of them.

Travelling with Cerran was a seriously different experience than when he walked the distance from Cyril to Sprohm with Krjn and Montblanc, the young paladin joking around while pointing out various local landmarks, seemingly unaffected by the massive amounts of weight hanging off her body.

'How the hell do you carry all that stuff anyway,' Marché paused to catch his breath after a particularly steep incline, looking in disbelief at his companion, who despite having half the contents of a steelworks suspended from her shoulders, along with a sword that was almost as big as she was, had stopped off to collect a mid-sized pack from the clan hall. This additional weight was casually hanging from one strap over her left shoulder, presumably so it didn't prevent her from drawing her weapon.

'You get used to it after a while,' Cerran grinned impishly back at him, lounging against a boulder a little way ahead of him and not looking even slightly out of breath. 'A lot of my training as a paladin was in getting stronger and building up stamina, but even then, the first time I put this on I could barely stand, let alone walk.'

'And all paladins fight like this?'

'It's the tradition of the Light of Kiltia,' Cerran's face became serious for a moment. 'The first paladin was said to be a companion of the prophet Kiltia himself, who took up arms to defend holy Mount Bur-Omisace against unbelievers.

'The legend says that he fought for three days and three nights without rest until he drove the attackers off, only to be mortally wounded himself, giving his life for Kiltia, so each generation bears the weapons he used that day.' Cerran's seriousness evaporated as she shot him a wry smile. 'Or so the legend says anyway, but all that reading of dusty old scriptures puts me to sleep.'

'I know what you mean,' Marché couldn't help but smile back. It seemed that his new friend had about the same taste for academics as he did. 'I can't remember the number of times I've been shouted at for dozing off in class.'

'There's only a handful of us now, of course, and most of us spend our lives guarding the temples,' the paladin directed a wistful gaze towards the East, although Marché could see nothing in that direction but the endless rolling landscape. 'All paladins are orphans, raised by the temple, and you start training as either an acolyte, kiltia or paladin at eight years old, though the paladin training's so demanding that most drop out and become regular kiltia within a year.'

Marché whistled, not least at the thought of practicing swinging heavy swords around at that age, although he had no idea how to respond to the revelation about Cerran's status as an orphan. Cerran didn't give him a chance, however, as with a quick call of 'Let's get moving,' she set off up the trail again, leaving him to follow on with a shake of his head. Maybe she'd just heard all the usual platitudes too many times, but Marché got the impression that there was more beneath the young woman's cheerful demeanour than met the eye.

They paused, mid-morning for a snack of hard-boiled eggs and crusty bread that Cerran had filched from the clan hall, sitting on the edge of a cliff-side path with their legs dangling over the sheer drop, enjoying both the view and the pleasant mountain breeze.

Of course, Cerran's explanation of how Montblanc and Ma'kenroh, having put their newly replenished supplies to good use, should not have left their breakfast unattended while she was looking for provisions, left him overcome with laughter as he imagined just how loudly the young moogle could squeak the word _kupo!_ Her mischievous sense of humour was certainly infectious, although he doubted her two clan-mates would see it that way.

Time seemed to pass quickly with Cerran as a companion as they hiked even higher up the mountain trail, although the terrain became increasingly rockier and more difficult to negotiate. They soon left the more travelled paths, moving onto tracks that had probably seen more mountain goats than people, or whatever the clawed and fanged monstrosities that replaced these hardy animals in Ivalice were.

Indeed, Marché was pleasantly surprised that they had remained as unmolested as they had, considering the mercenary's grim warning at _The Jolly Seeq_. So far, nothing had leapt, snarling and growling from the shadows at them looking for its lunch, dive-bombed them to protect its territory or simply decided to go ten rounds with them just to prove that it was hard enough. Something deep inside him, however, quietly whispered that this wasn't something that would last.

That little voice of impending doom was something he tried valiantly to ignore, however, as he consulted Telrys's map time and time again, always making sure that they were heading for that hopeful **X** that marked Professor Auggie's intended destination. While they made good time, slowly but steadily ascending the rocky trails that led further into the mountains, it would be mid-afternoon before they encountered the very thing that Marché had hoped not to see again for a very long time … snow.

He supposed that he should have expected it, given that it had been growing steadily colder for the past few hours, and that he himself had seen the pristine covering of the high peaks when they'd first approached the fortress city of Sprohm. Seeing from a distance, however, was a different thing from actually encountering the damn stuff again, and Marché glared at the offending whiteness before gritting his teeth and carrying on, hoping beyond hope that his boots were waterproof. Ivalice was certainly a contrast in climates, from the deserts and scorching wastelands of Cyril to these frosty heights.

Perhaps, if he had been paying more attention to his surroundings, his sense of danger would have kicked in long before it did. Instead, deeply uncomfortable slogging through the covering of white powder, it came as a surprise when Cerran paused for a moment, examining something at the side of the trail, something that gave off a metallic gleam in the afternoon sunlight. After a moment, she waved him over, a vaguely sad expression on her face.

It was a man, clad in shining chainmail, a solitary, motionless figure in the otherwise undisturbed landscape. A deep crack that ran the length of his helmet, surrounded by crimson-stained snow told its own story as to how he had died, his weapon still in his hand for all the good it had done him. A few feet away, his shield lay on top of the snow, no doubt dropped at some point in the fight that had led to his death.

Beside him, Cerran lowered her face, her eyes closed and her hand over her heart as she murmured a few words that Marché didn't catch, although he clearly heard her final benediction, 'Faram.' This was the possible end to the adventure that he had pledged himself, dying alone in the middle of nowhere in some meaningless skirmish. More than anything, even more than his battle against Ba'Gamnan, this brought home the possible consequences of what he had signed up for, and Marché was forever grateful that the warrior had landed face down so that he couldn't see the expression on the man's face.

It was only when his companion tensed, scanning the surrounds with her hand on the massive broadsword at her back that he realised why they had discovered the man so easily and why he had not already been covered by a fresh layer of snow. This battle had happened very recently, and whatever had killed him was undoubtedly nearby.

The air seemed to get colder as he drew his gladius, instinctively moving nearer to Cerran, each of them covering the other as they scanned for any approaching danger. A sense of foreboding filled the air, as if even the mountain itself was warning them to turn back, to flee while they still could, and the sense that they were being watched was almost palpable. Without even thinking, Marché stooped to pick up the fallen warrior's shield, tightening the first strap around his forearm to lock it in place even as he grasped the second strap in his fist to control its movements.

The shield had a comforting weight to it, the bottommost point of its triangular design curving backwards towards his body, giving the impression of some giant steel canine tooth. A fantastical crimson beast stood rampant on it's face, seemingly snarling in defiance at those who would see its master harmed. It had not protected its previous owner well enough, but Marché would take all the advantages he could get, and he was sure that the man wouldn't mind in the least if it could keep someone else from suffering his fate.

A hideous rattling sound filled the air as several piles of blackened bones rose into the air, apparently of their own accord, reforming into complete skeletons in a mockery of human life. Here and there, scraps of clothing and rotted flesh hung from their bony frames and each began a slow and unsteady advance on the two living humes, a motley collection of corroded weapons in their hands.

'Cerran!' Marché was almost transfixed with horror at what he was seeing, even as the foul smell of death and decay assaulted his senses. 'They're dead, but they're moving!'

'Undead,' Cerran's reply was terse as she readied herself for battle, her pack long since discarded as she held her massive sword upright in both hands. 'Aim for the limbs and try to decapitate them; a sword that size won't have much effect on their bodies.'

Breathing deeply, he managed to get his fear under control, allowing that other forceful personality to take over, that training and skill he had gained when deposited in this foreign world. Even as he settled into a practiced stance, he could see that Cerran was right. There was nothing to their torsos but hoops of bone, ribs that would once have encircled vital organs, but which now held nothing but air. Breaking a few of these probably wouldn't be sufficient to stop them but removing the head or weapon arm, however...

He did not have the opportunity to study any further as the first was upon him, a rusted and pitted sword slicing down towards his neck. Marché danced past it as the sharpened blade whistled through the air where he had been standing, his sword cleaving the foul being's free arm off at the elbow before a whirling three hundred and sixty degree slash smashed through the vertebrae of its neck, a clattering shower of fallen bone signalling its abrupt end before it could even turn to face him.

Even as he finished his sweep, a dark shadow hurtled through the air towards his head, shield instinctively being raised to block it. The second creature's heavy iron mace impacted the gleaming metal plate with a clang, sending numbing shockwaves up his arm as he danced back, blade lashing out once more to divest the skeleton of it's weapon, along with a bony hand and half it's forearm. Not even slowing down, it returned for more, the shattered stump of bone lancing forward like a makeshift spear, determined to impale the boy responsible.

Marché swore, leaping out of the way before hacking off the remaining part of the limb at the shoulder, kicking out his foot to smash the ancient thigh bones in half, the undead thing toppling to the floor and out of the fight. Short, brutal and unforgiving, not at all like he had imagined sword fights to be when he was sitting listening to tales of ancient battles in his history lessons, this was hard, gritty and far, far too real.

With no enemies nearby, Marché took stock, pausing to look to where Cerran's blade was causing havoc amongst her foes. Already having dispatched two, her massive broadsword cleaved through the air, smashing through the remaining enemy's weapon and ribcage alike, the shattered remnants being hurled a good ten feet through the air to clatter off the mountain face. Even with their enemies down he could not get to rest though, as a sharp pain encircled his leg, a startled yell escaping him as he looked down.

Empty, blackened eye sockets glared soullessly back at him as his last enemy clawed its way up his leg with its remaining arm, teeth chattering a macabre staccato. Without even thinking, Marché battered his shield down on it, freeing himself just enough to bring his weapon down again and again until it stopped moving. All around, a horribly familiar rattling filled the air, signalling the arrival of yet more undead from their shallow resting places beneath the snow.

Cerran didn't give them time to get their bearings, leaping forward with a defiant cry, Marché quickly following in her wake. A quick downward slash from his gladius separated one forming cloud of bones even before it could resolve itself into human form, while another backhanded slash removed the head of another before it could raise a weapon to defend itself. Beside him, the paladin's blade scythed in wide arcs, simply destroying anything that got in its path. It was certainly not a subtle weapon, but it seemed to work for her, and Marché began to wonder whether the legend of the first paladin had slightly more than a kernel of truth to it.

Individually, they posed little threat, unskilled, easily dispatched and poorly armed, but the truth was, that for each one that fell two more would appear in its place. Not only that, but ever so often, the dreaded rattling of assembling bones and weaponry would appear behind them, one of the fallen finding a new spark of unlife as it rose to face them once more, catching them in a pincer between two waves of shambling, implacable foes.

Despite the adrenalin coursing through his system, Marché was tiring quickly as they fought on, minute after excruciating minute for a half hour or more, and even Cerran's devastating swings were slowing, forcing her to choose her targets with more care than her initial assault. He now knew what had felled the warrior they had left a good quarter mile down the trail, not the skill of a single foe, but the relentless waves of enemy after enemy and the steady onset of exhaustion. Even as they were backed into the mouth of a narrow ravine, from which no other exit could be found, Marché couldn't let his attention wander from the ongoing dance of slash, cut, parry and block. Cerran, on the other hand, was a different matter.

'Keep them off me,' her face was drawn with concentration as she re-hooked her sword onto the back of her armour, backing away from the entrance as she removed her gauntlets.

'What!'

'Just hold them off until I can finish,' both hands were now clasped, as if in prayer, and her head was down as she whispered softly. Not knowing what else to do, Marché just leapt forward towards the gap, where the first blackened dead were already making their way through. Fortunately the entrance was so tight that only one or two could force themselves through the gap at once, leaving them easy pickings for Marché's blade. The occasional nick and slice, along with the repeated impact of heavy weapons onto his shield were beginning to take their toll though, slowing his reactions and leaving him more and more open to attack. Whatever it was she was doing, Marché hoped that his friend had more up her sleeve than the hope of divine intervention.

The heavy impact of yet another corroded iron mace slammed once again into the face of his shield, this time succeeding where they hadn't before, and Marché's tired legs finally buckled, landing him on his back in a jarring impact with the unforgiving rock. Desperately, he blocked a vast overhand swing that would have crushed his head like a melon, and panicking he moved to call out to Cerran only to see her finally end her prayer, one hand extended to the advancing evil and a strangely serene expression on her usually cheerful face.

The blackened bones of the fiend standing over him simply disintegrated without a sound as a soothing light washed over them, mere powder that swirled in the mountain breeze before being carried away in the wind. All around, weapons fell to the ground with muffled thuds as their owners joined the first, mingling together as they whirled up into the sky, her spell spreading outwards to encompass them all. Marché struggled to his feet, looking in awe at his friend even as the light washed over him as well, cuts and grazes sealing over without a trace and even the aches and pains in his muscles ebbing away under the gentle waves of light.

He stood and watched as the serene expression slowly faded into a bright grin as Cerran slowly lowered her hand, taking in a deep breath as she did so. Moments later the full weight of the paladin and her armour was crushing down on him, Marché dashing forward to catch her as she took a step forward, legs giving way from under her as exhaustion took over.

'That was amazing,' Marché manoeuvred her into a sitting position on the bare rocky ground under an overhang, no longer worried about the hordes of darkness assaulting their position, the feel of the mountains once more returning to their peaceful, natural state.

'Don't ask me to do it again,' Cerran coughed as she took a long swig of water from the wineskin he handed her, resting her back against the canyon wall and closing her eyes. 'I knew healing magic destroyed undead instead of curing them, but I've never cast one that powerful before.'

'Can you move?' Despite the newly relaxed feel of their locale, Marché didn't want to tarry in that place for longer than he had to. No matter how much better his injuries felt after Cerran's spell, both of them were drained of energy and in no condition to fight. 'We need to find a place to camp and get something to eat.'

'I'll be fine in a few moments,' she handed him back the wineskin, Marché taking his own fill of the cool, rejuvenating liquid. 'Krjn wasn't exaggerating when she said how skilled you are.'

'Not as good as you,' Marché couldn't help but recall some of the sheer destructive power that his companion had unleashed during the battle, and that was without including her final display of magic. 'You saved my life.'

'You'd have done the same for me,' Cerran grinned at him, taking the edge off the serious nature of their conversation. 'Besides, clan-mates look out for each other and you sell yourself far too short; I couldn't have done it without you.'

With that, she offered him her hand, which he grasped warmly, helping to pull her up to her feet before the two of them walked slowly out of the ravine, not a single one of the walking dead to be found. Looking down the trail they had fought their way up, Marché was surprised by just how much ground they had covered, but then he hadn't been paying much attention to such things during the battle.

'We should probably go back and get our packs,' Cerran looked at the distance they would have to travel with some reluctance as the lack of a familiar weight on his back became apparent to him, his mind and body slowly coming down from its battle-heightened state. His own pack had joined Cerran's, discarded on the trail quite soon into the battle as the additional weight and cumbersome bulk began to hamper his movements and tire him more quickly. All that was currently in their possession were Marché's wineskin, hooked to his belt in its usual place and a bag full of gil secured inside his tunic. Krjn had been quick to advise of the folly of keeping that on his belt in a town full of light-fingered strangers, not that gil would do them any good in their current predicament.

'I suppose we'd better,' Marché peered down the trail, just about able to make out the dark brown shape of his pack against the snow where he had left it. He allowed himself to glance further up the trail, his spirits sinking as he did so. 'I don't think we'll get any further anyway.'

Cerran's puzzlement turned to understanding as she too cast her gaze upwards. Only a few hundred yards ahead the trail disappeared into a mass of snow and boulders, clearly impassable by even the most skilled of climbers. An avalanche had been through, although how recently they couldn't tell. The main route to Professor Auggie's cave ended there.

'Not to worry,' Cerran's cheerful demeanour made it's reappearance. 'There's got to be another way up there, so let's just get our gear and try and find a place for camp.'

Marché wished he had her optimism, not least because it meant that they'd chopped their way through hordes of relentless undead for absolutely nothing, nearly getting themselves killed in the process. Maybe the mercenaries back at the pub had been right, and that he was on a fool's errand, but he knew he couldn't turn back now.

It took them a surprisingly short amount of time to reclaim their belongings, heading back down towards the snow line and hopefully a different route. Marché cast one last look at the warrior who had died on the trail, silently thanking him for the shield that had kept him alive long enough for Cerran to save them. Looking towards Cerran, he knew he had a debt far greater than mere gratitude to her as well, for if she hadn't followed him when he stormed out of breakfast, his own body would have joined the man on that lonely mountain.

He was grateful, however, to once again cross the snow line and walk on packed earth and rock again after trudging through his most disliked weather phenomenon, even if it did result in a lengthy detour. Had the earlier trail been passable, they would have made it by nightfall, but now one day's journey had become two. Telrys's map once again proved invaluable, leading them round an even less well-travelled goat-trail further into the bowels of ravines and canyons, where rocky overhangs and shattered boulders resulted in a bleak, unforgiving landscape. The one welcoming thing it did provide, however, was shelter.

The cave was not large, essentially a deep crack in an already significant overhang, where once upon a time, the crushing force of a glacier had carved the evidence of its passing into the rock face. Nevertheless, it suited their purpose, just big enough to allow them a comfortable amount of space and not extending far enough to hide any hidden dangers within, with the added bonus of a small partially concealed entranceway, reducing the risk of any uninvited guests during the night. There was perhaps some evidence that a creature, perhaps a bear, had spent the winter there, but nothing that would suggest any current claims to ownership.

It was pure luck that they had found it, but Marché was glad that they had, for he had no wish to spend the night out in the open after what they had just experienced. The only downside, perhaps, was the complete lack of firewood in this broken landscape, but fortunately Cerran had an answer to that as he began pulling various rations out of his bag, switching from the standard trail rations to more appetising fare once he saw what she was doing.

Having formed a makeshift fireplace out of a few spare rocks, the paladin reached into her bag to pull out a small black box, lifting a curiously hexagonal shaped reddish crystal out with her gauntleted hand. The crystal flared to life as she did so, emitting a warm red glow that suffused the cavern, along with a welcome radiant heat that increased as she placed it in the centre of the fire, the surrounding stones taking on a similar incandescence. 'Fire magicite,' was her simple response to his questioning look.

'Is that?' Marché had a devilish image in his mind as he recalled a certain conversation they had enjoyed that morning.

'The piece that she sat on, yes,' Cerran's grin was equally devilish as she took off her gauntlets and held her hands out to the fire. 'I do like to remind her occasionally, but I don't actually use it often; they're only good for about a week or so's warmth and then they wear out.'

Marché drew himself closer to their new heat source as he began working on the few ingredients he'd stocked up on. He may not have been able to claim that he was as good a cook as Krjn, but he had been packed off to camp just about every year when he lived in the city, usually so they only had to worry about Doned for the summer holidays. In the end the meat was a little overdone, with only a pinch or two of salt for taste, but neither was alert enough to really care. Indeed, Cerran confided later as they lay down by the fire enjoying the heat from the magicite that she couldn't cook to save her life, and if she had been responsible, she'd have poisoned them both.

It was perhaps a testament to their exertions, along with the fact that Marché hadn't slept in two days, that lulled them into a sound slumber without even a thought for manning a watch. Luckily for them, however, the mountain had seemingly had its fill of death and violence for the day, and the sun would be high in the sky before either one awoke refreshed the following morning.

'Guess we both needed that,' Cerran yawned as Marché pulled his remaining fresh supplies from his pack to prepare a hearty breakfast for them, which actually turned out better than his attempt the previous evening. He wasn't too worried about using the last of them, as they would only go off anyway and they had trail rations to fall back on. Hopefully, they wouldn't need to resort to that, however, as with a good hike they would reach the cave by just after midday and complete their quest. He tried not to think about what he would do if they didn't find Professor Auggie at the end of their journey.

Prepared and fortified for the day, it was with a light-heartedness that hearkened back to the previous morning that they set off on their journey, and Marché could only hope that this time they would remain that way. He only wished that the good cheer would have extended to his sore feet, but apparently Cerran's healing spell wasn't designed for blisters.

Even so, the miles were eaten up in an easy fashion as the two maintained a good pace, taking a more circuitous route to their destination before a final steep climb up to the tiny plateau marked on Telrys's map. That part of the journey was even more unpleasant than their entertainment with the walking dead had been the previous day, and soon the muscles in their legs were protesting as they hiked higher and higher through once again snow covered landscape, the thin warmth of the sun barely noticeable as it rose into the sky.

A few of the local denizens dogged their steps as they climbed, but fortunately nothing as horrific as what they had encountered before. Large, wolf-like creatures of roughly the same descent as the worgen and desert wolves he had encountered on the way from Cyril, only this time blending perfectly into their surrounds with their pristine white coats. The occasional threatening snarl was all they really managed though as a bared blade and the beginning of an advance was all it took to send them on their way. It seemed that some of the local residents did have a glimmer of intelligence after all, intelligence enough to allow Marché and Cerran to reach their destination without further bloodshed at least.

Cool breezes and chilly stronger gusts swept across the flat barren landscape of the plateau, worn-down boulders and scoured rocks the only decorations in what was truly an inhospitable place. Far across the other side of the plateau, the dark shadow of a cave mouth promised sanctuary from the elements and the end of their trek.

Considering how his recent luck had been running, Marché half expected that they'd have run into further trouble, perhaps an enraged yeti or two, but they successfully navigated to the gaping mouth of the cave without any further incidents, both eager to get some shelter from the awful weather, regardless of whether they found the missing Professor Auggie or not.

A few yards into the cavern and the biting winds died away leaving the air cool and moist. Cerran reached into her pack once more, retrieving yet another piece of the strange, hexagonal crystal, this one shining with a pale opalescence. Once again the gemstone reacted to her touch, bathing the darkened passageway with a soft light. According to Cerran, this particular brand of stone was holy magicite, although Marché couldn't see anything particularly religious or sacred about it. Nevertheless, it was pretty useful, and he made a mental note to see about picking up a few shards of this magicite for himself.

Fortunately, the going was easier in the cave than it had been slogging through the snow outside, although their pace was restrained and slow. Neither of them particularly wanted to run headlong into any surprises lurking in the gloom, whether the surprise in question was of the clawed and fanged variety or simply a fifty foot drop. The path slanted downwards, cutting deep into the mountain as the light from the entranceway disappeared in the distance. Mindful of the various horrors the cave could well hold, Marché advanced with his weapon drawn and shield held ready, the light from Cerran's magicite glinting off his sharpened steel blade.

After half an hour of monotonous travel, broken only by the occasional wrong turn down side passages that eventually went nowhere, the small cave opened up into a vast grotto. Deep lakes of standing water were crossed by narrow bridges of smooth rock that were effectively no more than stepping stones in places, the sparkling clear water giving glimpses of the occasional fish swimming through the depths. Cerran extinguished her crystal, its light no longer needed with the radiance shining down from the ceiling. It was the source of this illumination that left both Marché and Cerran staring with open-mouthed amazement.

Great hexagonal spurs of magicite, each thicker than tree trunks pierced the ceiling of the cavern, extending diagonally downwards through the air. Each one was glowing with a cool blue radiance that filled the large cave with light, shining veins of the same crystal running through the very walls, sprouting into delicate crystalline trees and growths that gave the entire place a surreal appearance.

'Wow,' Marché had seen many things since his arrival in Ivalice, but this really did outshine them all. 'Have you ever seen anything like this?'

'Never,' Cerran's gaze roamed over the incredible structures that seemed to grow from every surface. 'I'm surprised no-one's ever tried to mine it, but this place must have been undisturbed for years; look at the size of those stalagmites.'

'Stalactites,' Marché's absent-minded correction was almost automatic. It was one of the few things from his geography classes that he actually remembered.

'Huh?' Cerran's face was initially puzzled before she realised what he had said. 'I've never been able to remember which is which, myself.'

'There's a rhyme that helps,' Marché shot her a devilish grin before continuing. 'When the mites crawled up the girl's legs, her tights came down.'

Cerran snorted with laughter at the crude rhyme, but Marché doubted that she would get the two confused again. The potty humour was probably the only reason that he'd been able to remember it, although his geography teacher would no doubt be unimpressed. He was apparently not the only one as both Marché and Cerran were surprised by a querulous voice from a tunnel that appeared to delve further into the depths.

'Yes, yes, a shining example of hume wit,' the owner of the voice shuffled out the passageway, revealing himself to be a rather moth-eaten looking nu mou dressed in a cowled grey robe. A worn looking satchel was slung over his shoulder and his hands contained a small notebook and quill. 'You must have been associating with our current crop of undergraduates, for that is about the level of their scholarly talents.'

Marché supposed he should feel insulted, but it was pretty accurate. One burden had at least been lifted from his shoulders though, as it appeared that they had found their wandering scholar, although the thought of spending the entire trip back in the company of the garrulous old creature was starting to look unappealing.

'Professor Auggie?'

'Indeed I am, although you appear to have me at a disadvantage,' Marché's enquiry seemed to have startled the nu mou, as if it hadn't expected anyone all the way out in the mountains to know his name. 'I do not get guests in these parts, save for the hungry variety from below, so you may understand my confusion as to why you are here.'

'Your assistant Telrys was worried that you hadn't returned, so hired our clan to come and find you,' the nu mou blinked its large eyes as Marché explained his presence. 'I'm Marché and this is Cerran, a paladin of Kiltia.'

'Clan members, hmm?' Professor Auggie closed the book in his hand and stowed it in his satchel. 'I have to say, I'm surprised ones like you would have agreed to such a request, but the boy needn't have worried himself, my research is taking longer than predicted is all.'

'So you're not coming back with us?' Cerran seemed a little relieved, as the nu mou's slow pace would have made the return journey much longer than normal, and would probably have meant another night spent on the mountain.

'Certainly not!' the being's reply was indignant. 'There are far too many interesting discoveries waiting to be made here, and I will be the one to make them, so tell that wayward boy to get back to the library and get some work done.'

'He did seem very worried about you,'

'He always worries, but he is a competent researcher at least.' Marché was at least glad to hear that Professor Auggie had one good thing to say about his assistant. 'Take this back with you as well, as I'm sure that old bean-counter of a dean is complaining, and here's for your troubles.'

The moth-eaten old nu mou reached into his satchel and drew out a tightly bound thesis that he handed over, as well as a small leather bag. From what Marché could see from the cover, the thesis appeared to deal with the structural instabilities of various gemstones and crystals, although most of the language went over his head. A quick nod later and Professor Auggie had shambled off back into the tunnels leaving them alone.

'So what did he give us?' Cerran's expression was hopeful as Marché stowed the thesis safely away and opened the drawstring of the bag. Shaking it open, his eyes widened and he couldn't help but agree with the sentiment behind his friend's astonished whistle as a river of precious stones spilled into his hand. Sparkling rubies and glittering sapphires mingled with a host of other gems, catching and reflecting the light from the magicite above them.

'There must be a small fortune here,' Cerran had a wide smile on her face as she picked up one of the more attractive stones, turning it this way and that as she held it up to the light. 'I can't wait to see what Krjn can get for these.'

'Neither can I,' Marché grinned as he slid the gemstones back into the bag before closing it up again and storing it in his pack. 'Krjn does all the bartering then?'

'She can usually get the best prices,' Cerran shrugged as they turned to leave the cavern and return to the surface. 'I couldn't negotiate a good price to save my life.'

The two kept up a cheerful dialogue as they returned to the surface. All in all, it had been an interesting start to his days as an adventurer, although he could have done without the incident with the walking dead, but he supposed that he would have to get used to such things. It wouldn't be much of an adventure without the occasional monster after all.

The trip back, thankfully, was far easier than the journey to the cave, largely due to the fact that it was all downhill, although knowing exactly which paths to take and a lack of hostile attention did help matters along. Still, it was many hours and the sky was the pitch black of late evening by the time the two of them rejoined the main road outside Sprohm's massive main gate, the bangaa guards eyeing them suspiciously.

It was a welcome relief, therefore, when they collapsed into chairs at Telrys's table by the fire in _The Jolly Seeq_, Marché collecting two mugs of mead from the bar for them as they did so. The warmth of the flames slowly filtered into their bodies, easing away the aches of the mountain.

'Thank you, good master,' Telrys was clearly overcome with joy at the news that his master was alive and well, as Marché passed on the message for him to return to the university, along with the tightly bound copy of Professor Auggie's thesis. 'I feared for his safety and the dean was becoming most insistent about his thesis.'

Telrys left in good spirits having delivered his promised bag of gil, Marché remembering to set aside a quarter of it for the clan fee before sharing the rest out between himself and Cerran, the two relaxing in the warmth of the pub as they sipped their drinks, their work done for the day.

Soon enough though, tiredness drove them back towards the clan hall, where Marché was looking forward to seeing Montblanc again, wanting to reassure the moogle that he was fine after leaving so abruptly the other day. Walking in to the low-ceilinged clan hall, it appeared that they had arrived in time for dinner, as Krjn was busy at the cooking range while Ma'kenroh was laying plates and organising cutlery for the four that were present.

'Kupo!' Marché had expected that this would be the first thing that the moogle would say as soon as he saw them, and grinned back at the small being. 'I was worried when you did not return the other night, kupo.'

'Sorry about that,' Marché was truly regretful that he had caused his friend to be concerned about him, and tried his best to reassure him. 'I did mean to come back, but got sidetracked into a mission with Cerran before I could.'

'Yes, your little jaunt up the mountains for little better than chocobo scratchings,' Monid did not seem overly impressed with the way they'd spent the last two days as he rasped out his criticism. 'I hope you got some satisfaction from your good deed boy, but that kind of work will leave you a corpse in the wilderness before it puts food on your table.'

'We did okay out of it,' Cerran unhooked her blade and placed it on the large weapons rack by the door, motioning for Marché to do the same, hanging his shield up on a wall hook and leaving his gladius in a nearby stand. 'Could have done without the pitched battle with the hordes of undead though.'

'Undead, kupo?'

'Yeah, they were a little playful,' Marché grinned at his friend, trying not to alarm him. 'We managed to hold them off long enough for Cerran to use a healing spell and destroy them though.'

'It appears that you have had a busy two days, so you should provide us with the full story over dinner,' Krjn withdrew more ingredients from the storage cupboards, adding them to the various pots and pans on the stove to accommodate two more guests for dinner. 'You were right in what you said that day though, it was the right thing to do.'

'Thanks,' Marché had been slightly apprehensive that he had caused offence to the taciturn viera, and was glad that she had no hard feelings. 'Say, Krjn, do you think you can barter a good price for these.'

Krjn's expression was suitably awed as she caught the small bag that Marché threw over to her, shaking its contents loose onto the table. Monid swore quietly as he picked up one of the larger stones, while Ma'kenroh examined them with a practised eye, Montblanc bouncing up and down with excitement as his tiny wings whirred ineffectively. 'Like she said, we did okay out of it.'

The evening rolled on as the clan gathered for their meal, Krjn's preparation of a spicy roasted fowl, delicious fresh vegetables and crispy roast potatoes a welcome return to civilisation after Marché's basic preparations over a campfire, and the conversation roamed from the details of their journey to Krjn's own task for the healers guild, Monid's complaints about the increase in price of weapons and rumours of offers of work and marks to be hunted. Even the prickly Monid seemed to warm to him by the end of their meal though, his credentials apparently verified by the amount of loot he and Cerran had brought back, and only raising a token resistance when Marché finally asked to join the clan.

'Well, if you're as good with a blade as these three seem to think you are, I suppose you can stay,' his eventual acquiescence was less than enthusiastic, but Marché was coming to understand that this was just the way the gruff bangaa was. 'Maybe you can find us a few more clients with pockets full of trinkets we can shake loose.'

As he lay in bed that night, glad to be rid of his cumbersome leather breastplate and boots that had rubbed his feet raw, he realised that for the first time since he had awoken in the alleyway in Cyril, he felt happy and relaxed, finally feeling that he belonged. He hadn't given up on trying to return home, but for now he at least had good friends around him and a renewed sense of purpose. It was an oddly assorted group, but all were good people, even the grumpy Monid, whose light snores from across the dormitory style bedroom provided a counterpoint to Ma'kenroh's snuffling.

Somewhere out there was the means to return him home, and maybe his friends as well, but tomorrow was a new day and he would meet whatever challenges it brought as they came. There was no point in worrying about things he couldn't change and a future he couldn't see, and it was with that knowledge that he drifted into a peaceful sleep.


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6.**

Lazy sworls of steam curled around the small room in the gloomy basement as Marché allowed the warmth of the water in the crude metal bath to soak through his muscles and ease the blistered feet and sore hands that were the inevitable consequence of his somewhat less than gentle introduction to the harsh life of adventure and combat.

A large piece of glowing fire magicite rested between his outstretched legs, far bigger than the ones held by Cerran and, thanks to an entertaining hour's browsing in a local magic and curiosity shop early that morning, himself. While its position did make things slightly awkward, it was worth it for the way in which it kept the water temperature at almost scalding levels, and the ruddy glow brought to mind the inside of a furnace.

Monid, as Marché had half predicted, while seemingly accepting him into the clan, had insisted on a sparring session or ten, ostensibly to work out a few kinks, but Marché wasn't deluding himself into believing that it was anything other than an evaluation and a test to see whether he could trust the newcomer to guard his back in a tight situation. He supposed he couldn't really blame the bangaa, since the five had been working as a team since long before he arrived, but it was brutal, punishing combat nonetheless.

'What are you going to do now, boy,' Monid's grin was particularly predatory as he growled his question. 'You're weaponless, and I have the advantage.'

Sadly, it had been entirely true, considering that the bangaa's previous well angled strike with his short-handled, heavy halberd had sent the gladius skittering across the floor and out of his reach, leaving Marché with only his newly acquired shield to protect him. Far too immersed in his combat persona, he hadn't responded, merely setting the metal plate in front of him and standing his ground, watching his opponent for any sign of impending attack.

Monid hadn't disappointed, lunging forward in a manner reminiscent of Ba'Gamnan, although more controlled and without all the spitting and snarling. Over too quickly to think, a swift sidestep, a hook with the inside edge of his shield and a hefty push was all it took to deflect the course of the halberd and give him enough room to slam the top of the shield into the bangaa's jaw, Marché already diving away to retrieve his weapon, rolling to his feet as Monid closed in for more. Maybe it was his imagination, but he thought he might have detected a flicker of respect in his opponent's eyes as he did so.

That particular memory, Marché mused as he allowed himself to sink deeper into the steaming water, was one of the few better ones of the day, as although he'd held his own as well as he could he'd still lost quite a few more than he'd won. Knowledge he may have had, but actual physical experience was another thing entirely, and the bangaa had quite a few more years of that than he did. The weight advantage and that bloody halberd hadn't helped either, whether it was jabbing at him with its sharpened tip, sweeping towards him with its wide blade or simply being used as an instrument of brute force to throw him back, it always had the reach on him, and getting close enough to actually do anything to its owner was exceedingly difficult.

Eventually though, Monid had declared his skills passable, which Marché was starting to understand was probably a complement coming from him. Nevertheless, he couldn't help but feel a little inadequate compared to his new companions, no matter how much they praised him. Having Montblanc and Krjn with their deadly ranged accuracy and lethal magic, Cerran with her massive broadsword and healing skills and now the tenacious Monid's skill with a polearm, left him feeling very much like a spare cog. Even the placid looking Ma'kenroh was reputed to wield powerful magics that made the others' look like carnival tricks.

The advent of a sudden rainsquall had driven Marché back inside after that, although the bangaa seemed pretty much immune to the weather. He presumed it must have been something to do with the leathery scales that made up the majority of the bangaa's skin, but Monid simply huffed, mentioned something about putting a bet or two on at the cockatrice fights, and sauntered off down the street, oblivious to the torrential downpour that was bouncing off him with every step. Marché, on the other hand, had sought out the sanctuary of the clan hall basement, home to store rooms, a questionable looking toilet room and the haven of the warm bathroom next door to it.

Indoor plumbing wasn't exactly something he'd expected in this world of swords and sorcery, but considering that he'd encountered airships and firearms as just two examples of advanced discoveries, he probably shouldn't have been surprised. Either way, he was grateful for the relaxation it provided. Ivalice was certainly a strange place though, as everything seemed to come back to magic, rather than science in the end. As far as Montblanc's explanation had gone when he'd asked, even the shots from his gun and the fuel for the airships came from magicite, which in the end was merely crystallised mist, the source of magic itself. What he would have thought of as the common resource of oil was so rare and difficult to obtain that it was only used in the processes needed to construct the airships themselves. Indeed, the majority of Rozarria's oilfields lay abandoned in the Yensan desert on the border with Dalmasca, home now only to howling winds and degenerate sand raiders.

Eventually, with the skin on his fingers and toes shrivelled like prunes, and mindful of the amount of power he was draining from the magicite, Marché hauled himself out of the bath feeling refreshed and revitalised. He dressed slowly, eschewing the heavy leather breastplate that usually rested under his tunic, not seeing the need for the uncomfortable protective armour in the safety of the clan hall. Making sure to clean up after himself, he made his way up to the common room, idly noting the incessant hammering of the rain on the windows as he hung the breastplate on a free rack before joining Montblanc and Ma'kenroh at the table. Cerran had left on her own personal mission that morning, immediately accompanied by her close friend Krjn; to bring the body of the fallen warrior back to Sprohm for a proper burial.

'Good afternoon, kupo,' Montblanc looked up from the stack of parchment set in front of him, which appeared to be various official announcements, new local bylaws and postings offering work or requesting assistance. 'Are you feeling well?'

'Yeah,' Marché levered himself into a seat, stopping only to dump some herbs from an earthenware vase into a mug, before pouring some hot water from the kettle over the fireplace over them. The resultant chai tea wasn't what he was used to, but he was quickly developing a taste for it. Milk and sugar, of course, were nonexistent, and considering he hadn't seen anything even resembling a cow since he had arrived, he didn't like to speculate as to the likely alternatives even if they did exist. 'Monid didn't pull any punches today though, so I think I've got a few more bruises to add to the collection.'

'I asked him not to do that,' the young moogle looked disappointed as he shook his head. 'He should have taken our word as to your skills, kupo.'

'Don't worry about it,' Marché shrugged his concerns off as he swirled the water in his mug, allowing the flavour of the herbs to be released. 'I don't blame him for wanting to know whether he can trust me, and I need all the practice I can get.'

'But you are good, kupo,' the expression on Montblanc's small face was disbelieving at the downhearted tone in Marché's voice. 'Look at the way you handled those worgen, and Cerran says you took down at least thirty of those skeletons.'

'Yeah, but they weren't very good,' Marché sipped his tea, the herbs and spices teasing his senses as he leaned back into his chair. 'Even then, Cerran took out far more of them than I did, and without her spell at the end, I'd be dead.'

Surprisingly, the main response from the young moogle was a laugh, bat-like wings flittering back and forth as he shook in mirth, and even Ma'kenroh, absorbed in some detailed looking research paper, raised his head to see what was going on. Marché, on the other hand, couldn't help but feel slightly disgruntled.

'You really are putting yourself down,' he finally got himself under control to respond to Marché's concerns. 'Most soldiers in the army would be hard-pressed taking on one worgen, kupo, and every mercenary I've met would have either abandoned Cerran and run for their lives as soon as they saw the first of them appear, or wouldn't have lasted ten minutes; that's why hunters and clans exist.'

'Really?'

'Indeed, young one,' Ma'kenroh's deep, melodic voice broke into their conversation, proof in itself that despite his distracted nature, he had been paying attention to what was going on. 'Cerran is a powerful warrior, and her weapon is specifically designed for what she chooses to call _crowd control_, but she could not have stood alone in that fight; you held your ground well.'

'He's right, kupo,' Montblanc's voice added to the argument against his negative feelings. 'You should know too that bows and guns take time to reload and don't work well in close combat, so we might have been overrun by those worgen if you hadn't been there to keep them away from us.'

'Thanks guys,' Marché smiled as the two at least erased some of his worries about his place in the clan, although some niggling doubts did remain as he remembered the way that Cerran reaped her way through the enemy like someone cutting down weeds with a scythe. 'You'll let me know, though, if I start to slow you down?'

Twin affirmations met his request, although he could tell that both thought it unnecessary. Time would tell though, but it would seem that whatever force had brought him to Ivalice had gifted him with more innate skills than he could have hoped for. Maybe he'd try his hand at magic next, because calling fire and lightning bolts down from clear skies, healing wounds and destroying hordes of undead could only be described as incredibly cool. Strange though, that he hadn't felt the tingle of the mist that Krjn had said was present everywhere in the land. That was something he would worry about later though, as he got up to add some more water to the herbs in his now empty cup.

They sat and talked for a while, Marché helping his moogle friend browse through the various hunts and offers of work that he'd collected, while Ma'kenroh padded to the doorway, standing watching the torrential rain hammering down on the cobbles in his own enigmatic manner. Some of the jobs were too far away to be profitable, requiring extensive airship travel that would effectively wipe out any profits, while others were simply too distasteful to be considered. The offer to spend the next two weeks helping to clean blocked storm drains in Sprohm's sewer system was swiftly placed on the rejection pile.

A couple of them did look promising though, one involving bringing in a gang of pickpockets that had fled into the wilderness just one step ahead of the local watch, and the other needing a caravan guard for minerals being transported over the main mountain pass to the palace city of Bervenia. Both looked promising to Marché's untrained eye, although since the incident with Ba'Gamnan, Marché was still unsure as to whether he could use his weapon against another sentient being in actual combat. Overgrown wolves and walking skeletons were one thing, but people were quite a different proposition altogether.

In the end, Montblanc put the escort job to one side for Monid, who hadn't been experiencing much luck finding work for the past few weeks. At the very least, he was determined to give the bangaa first refusal, and Marché wasn't about to argue with him. Everyone deserved a decent chance to earn a living after all. The other bill they resolved to save to discuss over dinner, as it would take more than one or two of them to bring the criminals, petty though they were, to justice.

Business taken care of for the day, Montblanc rooted out a bowl full of pungent-smelling nuts, which he proceeded to crack open with his teeth and devour with relish, while Ma'kenroh returned to his research paper and several pieces of crudely hacked-off bread and a round of soft, creamy cheese. Politely declining the nuts, which smelled utterly vile, he accepted some of the nu mou's offerings before taking his place at the door, chewing contemplatively as he watched the rain slowly easing off, the sun reflecting off the wet cobblestones as the inhabitants of the city slowly made their way back out into the streets to continue their comings and goings, the sudden shower dying away as quickly as it had arrived.

As he leaned against the doorway, Marché's thoughts turned to the two female members of their group, probably on their way back down the mountain at that point if things had gone smoothly. Krjn was an enigma, and one that he didn't think he'd be figuring out any time soon, which made her friendship with the open and cheerful Cerran all the more intriguing.

Cerran herself, he was coming to realise, had almost as many layers and puzzles as Krjn had, coming across as carefree, mischievous and spirited, but under that open personality was a hint as to a painful past and a hard core of religious faith, as clearly evidenced by her desire to see the unknown warrior properly honoured. She and Krjn had already left on her self-imposed quest by the time he roused himself for the day, otherwise he would have undoubtedly volunteered to go with her.

'Hey, Montblanc?'

'Yes, kupo?' the moogle looked up from his snack, remnants of the nutshells caught in the normally impeccably groomed fur around his mouth. Marché smirked at the sight, the scene a contrast to the moogle's usual fastidiousness.

'Why don't we go down to the market and get something nice for dinner tonight, so Krjn doesn't have to cook when she gets back.' In truth, he was feeling a little guilty about not helping her and Cerran in their task, even though he suspected the two of them appreciated spending some time to talk freely and re-acquaint themselves away from the male members of the clan.

Montblanc looked down at his half-finished bowl with no small amount of chagrin before shrugging and pushing it away, jumping down from his chair to join Marché at the door. He paused just long enough to load his ornate firearm into the holster at his belt, the oversized weapon seeming almost comically large on his small frame. Marché himself briefly considered the merits of pulling on his leather breastplate, but quickly discarded that idea. It wasn't as if he was planning on getting into a fight, and the inside of the city seemed safe enough with the local watch around.

'It sounds like a good plan, kupo.' Montblanc's antenna and pom-pom swished back and forth as he spoke, and Marché had the sudden mischievous urge to bat it back and forth like a cat playing with a ball of string. Luckily, he managed to rein in his instincts before they got him into trouble, but it brought a smile to his face nonetheless.

They made a strangely mismatched pair, Marché mused as they slowly made their way through the city, passing shops selling everything to be expected for mining and industry, whether those things were tools and heavy-duty clothing or medical supplies for when things went wrong. Overhead, a ponderous-looking transport slowly raised itself out of the aerodrome, before swinging its bulk around and accelerating off towards the south-east. Telrys was probably aboard that ship, heading towards Cadoan and the awaiting dean of the university. Marché just hoped he'd get the chance to fly on an airship himself before he returned home.

'So, why did you form the clan, Montblanc,' Marché couldn't help but be curious, given Krjn's somewhat cryptic comments about how they'd all lost their way. 'I mean, I know you accept all these missions to get enough gil to get by, but there's more to it than that, isn't there.'

'There is, my friend, but it is not a happy tale.' Montblanc appraised him with a serious expression as the two walked on. 'My brothers, sister and I used to have a good, kindly master, who took us in and taught us all the trades we wanted to know about.'

'What happened?' Marché couldn't help but press, as the moogle paused for a few moments, seemingly to gather his thoughts.

'Yiazmat happened, kupo,' his voice was hard and grim, or at least as far as his customary squeak could get. 'Lord of all the wyrms in the world, he fought it off for days to protect us, but in the end it defeated him, and ever since I swore I'd defeat it in kind.'

'I'm sorry, Montblanc, I shouldn't have brought it up.' He truly was sorry that he had reminded his friend, but he was glad that he knew. Suddenly a lot of the hints he'd received in conversations with Krjn and Cerran fell into place, from Krjn's assertion that the clan had a higher purpose, to Cerran's reasons for leaving the temple.

'No kupo, you have a right to know if you're going to join us.' Montblanc gave him a reassuring smile as they turned the corner to enter a large marketplace. 'I found others along the way who'd also been touched by Yiazmat, and together we formed the clan in the hope to defeat it someday, but I think our friendships were the best thing to come out of it.'

'I'll help you,' Marché's impulsive declaration didn't particularly come as a shock to him, given how close he'd become to his new friends in such a short amount of time. 'I mean, I still want to get home, but as long as I'm still here, I'll help you as much as I can.'

'Thank you, kupo.'

Nothing more needed to be said as the two of them walked amongst the market stalls, nothing like the colourful bazaars of Cyril, with their spices and animated haggling. Here, every booth seemed to reflect the drab grey nature of the city, with dull canvas protecting them from the elements instead of the vibrant silks and threads. Fortunately, their inhabitants were friendly enough as Marché selected various vegetables and pulses to add to his growing hoard.

'What are you planning, kupo?' Marché couldn't help but notice that the young moogle never referred to anyone by their actual names, preferring the honorific that seemed to define everything he spoke of. From his limited contact with others of the race, this trait seemed to be pretty much universal.

'I was thinking about a fish stew,' he called back, as he added several ripe tomatoes to his bag, before adding a few handfuls more for good measure. He smiled as he caught his friend's look of protest. 'Don't worry, I'll make one without the fish for you.'

'You can really cook?' Montblanc's tone was somewhat sceptical.

'Of course I can,' Marché tried to inject some reassurance into his voice. In truth, campfire experiments aside, he was quite a good cook. Not to Krjn's standard, that was for sure, but with Doned incapacitated as he was, quite a lot of the household chores fell to him, and it was often a case of cook or go hungry. 'I cooked for my family all the time back home, so don't worry about it.'

Traffic in the cramped marketplace was surprisingly sparse, considering the size of the city, although some of that could probably be put down to the recent rainstorm. All in all though, Marché had to say that he preferred the life, colour and vibrancy of Cyril, despite the boiling heat that beat down on the inhabitants and washed in from the shifting sands of the desert. He idly wondered how the innkeeper's niece was doing, before moving onwards through the stalls.

A rather hefty and mean-looking fish completed the pending masterpiece, although the jovial fishmonger assured him it was an excellent feast. Considering the price he paid for it, Marché secretly thought that it had better be. It certainly made for good entertainment anyway, as he crept up behind his smaller friend, who was wrestling with a breadstick almost twice the size of him. The appearance of a large grey fish, replete with gaping mouth and teeth at a distance of a couple of inches was almost enough to scare the young moogle out of his skin, and the shrill exclamation had heads turning from halfway across the marketplace.

'You're worse than Cerran, kupo,' Montblanc rubbed at his behind as he picked himself up off the floor. 'Isn't one prankster enough for one clan?'

'Sorry,' Marché tried to get his laughter under control as he stowed the outsized creature in his bag, relieving the moogle of his burden of bread and signalling to the stallholder to add a large round of cheese as well. It was, perhaps, quite a bit to spend at once, but he had just been paid, and the thought of making something the others would enjoy was rather satisfying. 'I just couldn't resist.'

They laughed as they continued to browse through the stalls, although Marché was happy with his haul for the day. His attention was briefly caught by a display of highly polished weaponry, presided over by a heavily muscled hume with an intimidating moustache and numerous shiny burn-scars covering his arms, even going as far as to try out one particular gleaming sabre for balance. Despite the fact that it only held a single edge, it certainly had a good foot of reach on his gladius and was lighter too, feeling swift and deadly in his grasp.

It was with a certain amount of disappointment that he returned it to the rack, however, after seeing the price tag. Monid hadn't been joking when he complained about the current price of weapons, and even after receiving his first two mission payments, he didn't have nearly enough. Perhaps he would be able to revisit it after Krjn bartered the gemstones he received from Professor Auggie, but even then it would probably be out of his reach for the moment.

'Hey, you need a permit to sell that!'

The bellowed accusation that shattered the subdued atmosphere of the marketplace was coarse and nasty, attracting the attention of everyone within earshot. Marché noticed immediately that the few bystanders that were around made themselves scarce extremely quickly and most of the stallholders looked on with worried expressions.

The cause of the disturbance was immediately apparent, two armoured bangaa with wicked looking spears menacing a pimply-faced young man pushing a small cart. Jars full of what appeared to be the internal organs of various animals, preserved in viscous looking liquid filled it to capacity and a small, crudely made sign bore the legend _Popack's Potions Proprietor_.

'Yeah, potions ingredients are regulated goods, don't you know.' The second bangaa also seemed to want to get in on the act, picking up one of the containers and appraising it with a critical eye. 'Selling them without a license is a flogging offence, if you're lucky.'

The young man's face had drained of all colour as he attempted to stutter out an explanation, his only spark of defiance coming when his tormentor flung the jar back into the cart where it shattered with an almighty crash, taking out two other containers in the process, the smell of vinegar spreading outwards from the destruction.

'But sir, my merchandise!'

Any further protestations, however, were quickly silenced as the first bangaa's scaly hand curled around his throat, spear raised in an obvious gesture of threat. Marché's hand was on his weapon before he had even thought the situation through, a couple of inches of his blade already out of its scabbard before Montblanc's hand on his arm stopped him short.

'Don't kupo,' the moogle's expression was clouded with fear as he looked up at his friend, and his tone was urgent and shrill. 'They're the Judgemaster's personal guard.'

Marché's draw faltered, and he looked over towards the commotion with a torn appearance. On the one hand, the actions of the two armoured thugs were barbaric, the threat of deadly force over nothing more than a lack of paperwork, but on the other he knew how Ba'Gamnan had been treated by the judge in Cyril, and he had no desire to face the same fate.

'But I've paid for the permit, good sir,' the merchant choked out, the hold around his neck loosening only slightly at his attempt to explain. 'They said there was a backlog!'

The bangaa growled softly in his throat, as if trying to find something wrong with the young man's tale, and Marché watched on with his hand still paused over his weapon. The tension remained heavy in the air as Montblanc looked on worriedly, seemingly understanding that he wouldn't be able to stop his larger companion if Marché decided to take action. If the bangaa planned on using that spear of his then violence would undoubtedly follow.

'Bah, you'd better be telling the truth, hume.' Marché's hand relaxed as some of the tension bled from the air, the bangaa looking almost disappointed at the revelation. 'The only reason I don't destroy that garbage wagon is the smell it would cause.'

With that the merchant was forcibly hurled through the air to land with a thud on the cobblestones next to his cart, groaning softly and massaging his neck. One look at the two still stood before him was enough to spur him into action though, scrambling to his feet and pushing the cart out of the square as fast as his legs could take him, the laughter of the two bangaa following him as he ran. For their part, the two glowered at the surrounding witnesses, their gaze lingering on the still fuming Marché, before shambling off in the opposite direction, their heavy armour clinking as they went.

'How the hell can they get away with that?' Marché's fist was clenched as he glared after them, their silver and blue capes giving them an air of authority as bystanders melted out of their path.

'They work for the Judgemaster, kupo.'

Marché had never heard of this Judgemaster before, and from the behaviour of the two armoured thugs that had terrorised the young merchant he wasn't sure he wanted to become any more acquainted. The title stank more like Witchfinder General than anything else, and the attitude of the two bangaa had clearly conveyed the impression that such casual brutality was commonplace.

'All laws come from the palace and are enforced by the judges, kupo,' Montblanc began to explain, seeing the unspoken question on his friend's face. 'Every city has at least one, to determine guilt and pass sentence, and the Judgemaster controls them all from his place at the Queen's side.'

'That's tyrannical.'

'It didn't always used to be this way, kupo.' Montblanc kept his voice hushed, his eyes casting around the square for anyone who could overhear as he spoke. 'Only the Archadian empire had judges and the courts ensured that everyone got a fair trial and their chance to be heard.'

'What happened?'

'The palace deemed them too inefficient at suppressing opposition and enforcing the law and abolished them.' He turned his face towards the imposing fortress that backed against the high mountain wall, pointing out a regal-looking banner proudly flying from the highest turret. 'He's here right now on an inspection tour, making sure that the palace's will is obeyed.'

Marché followed his smaller friend's gaze up towards the intimidating stronghold that overlooked the city, his expression hardening. In Cyril, faced with two murderous bangaa, he had been glad of the judge's help, going so far as to defend him against the complaints of the locals. Now, however, he couldn't help but wonder if his gratitude towards the man had been misplaced, and what other acts his troops engaged in while upholding the law.

'Let's get out of here.'

The mood was somewhat more subdued as they made their way back across town, but at least the weather held off as they carried the spoils of their shopping back to the clan hall. A nice rainstorm would have been all they needed to round off the sour note that the confrontation in the marketplace had brought to their day.

Ma'kenroh met them at the door as they returned, seemingly engaged in one of his favoured activities of standing watching passers-by and thinking who knows what. Together they returned to the warmth of the living area, Marché unloading his shopping on the dining room table and readying knives, pots and pans as he stoked the coals to bring the range up to temperature.

'Have you seen Cerran and Krjn yet?' Marché glanced over to Ma'kenroh as his knife quickly divested the murderous-looking fish of its head and tail as he questioned the nu mou, infinitely glad that the fish had come already gutted and cleaned. That particular task was not one he remembered with any fondness from his times fishing at summer camp.

'Krjn returned briefly some few minutes ago, hume-child, although she left immediately after to barter the spoils of the day.'

Marché nodded his understanding, returning to preparing the ingredients for the night's meal as his mind wandered to the thought of how much he might get for his share of the gemstones that he and Cerran had obtained from the garrulous old Professor Auggie. It wasn't as if he particularly needed anything new, but it was always good to have a bit of money stashed away.

'Do you need any help, kupo?'

Fingers already moving on to his next task, Marché politely declined the moogle's offer, particularly given the way his friend's tiny wings were fluttering back and forth in excitement, almost generating enough power to lift his body from his chair. Such enthusiasm could only spell trouble. Soon enough, one extremely large pot of rich, tomato heavy fish stew was simmering nicely on the stove, next to one significantly smaller pot for Montblanc. His work done for the moment, Marché allowed himself to relax at the table, deliberately browsing through the stack of new bylaws Montblanc had been browsing earlier, mindful of the unforgiving nature of the judges and their enforcers.

'Bah!'

The clan hall door swept open with a bang as a familiar bangaa flung it aside as he stalked in, causing Ma'kenroh to look up from his book, blinking in surprise, while Montblanc almost fell of his chair in shock.

'Don't do that, kupo!'

'Bah,' Monid growled again, before grabbing at an earthenware tankard and drawing off a full mug of beer from a small cask. He sat himself down at the table, taking a huge swig before grumbling under his breath.

'Didn't back a winner then?' If he hadn't got to know the bangaa slightly better over the course of the morning, he might well have been intimidated by Monid's approach, but Marché was quickly coming to learn that most of the gruff attitude was a front. He also wasn't sure he liked the sound of the cockatrice fights that his clan-mate had mentioned, but bangaa as a race seemed to possess a significantly feral side to their nature that he would just have to get used to if he was to continue living under the same roof as Monid.

'Bloody critter couldn't provide any decent sport if you rammed a lightning bolt up its arse.'

'Sport, my friend?' Ma'kenroh's soft voice was disapproving as he eyed the new arrival over his book. 'Forgive me, but I fail to see what sport can be found in goading a pair of flightless birds into madness to wager on which will peck and claw the other to bloody scraps and shreds the fastest.'

'You stick to your pleasures and I'll stick to mine.'

Marché refrained from commenting as the two argued back and forth, although he couldn't help but grimace at the images his mind conjured. Judging from the look on Montblanc's face, he also didn't share Monid's enthusiasm, but chose to keep quiet either to keep the peace or because he knew that arguing with him was futile. Tasting the progress of the stew, Marché shook some more salt into it before covering it once more, returning to the table just in time to catch Monid's next volley of complaint.

'Blasted Judgemaster didn't help matters either,' he paused only to rise from the table to refill his empty tankard and return to his seat. 'Blocked the road for a good ten minutes while he and his lackeys passed by; you'd think his bollocks were made of nethicite the way he carries himself.'

'Kupo!'

Marché smiled at the moogle's disapproval before picking up the advertisement for the job they'd been saving for Monid.

'This should improve your mood some,' he slid the parchment across to his clan-mate, who took it with a questioning expression before reading his way down the advert, his eyes pausing when they reached the promised payment.

'Not bad, pretty good pay and I know the caravan master too.' Monid's expression turned into a grin as he appraised the offer of work. Looking up from the job offer, his snout twitched towards the range. 'What's cooking?'

'That is exactly what I was about to ask.'

All heads turned towards the door at the new entrant to the conversation as the lithe form of Krjn hung up her bow before making her way over to the kitchen range, expertly appraising the contents of the huge pan that Marché had set to simmer. She sniffed experimentally before raising an eyebrow at the others present in the room as she did so.

'Kindly reassure me that our glorious leader had no part to play in the creation of this, for it smells far too appetising for it to poison us all.' A teasing smile graced her features as both Marché and Monid laughed at the moogle's protests, experience having taught that, like Cerran, Montblanc couldn't cook to save his life.

'Nah, that'll be Marché's,' the rowdier, cheerful voice of Cerran echoed her companion from the doorway, ditching her massive sword with a clatter as she shut the door behind her, launching herself into one of the comfortable chairs in front of the fireplace. 'He's almost as good at cooking as you, Krjn.'

'We shall see.'

There was a warm camaraderie about the way the clan came together each evening, Marché decided as they laughed and bantered back and forth over the table in the warmth of the clan hall, bowls of the rich stew, crusty bread and cheese disappearing rapidly under the weight of their appetites. Marché couldn't help but feel a warm glow as more than one complement was directed his way. It certainly made a difference from the thanks he could expect to receive back home, where all he could expect was another sarcastic _little housewife_ comment from Doned. Thinking of that sparked a brief flash of guilt at the fun and laughter he was experiencing away from them, but quickly shrugged it off as Krjn and Monid drew him into a discussion about their journey from Cyril.

'So, have we got any jobs lined up?' Cerran's enquiry was directed across the table to Montblanc, deep in conversation with Ma'kenroh.

'Just the one, kupo.'

A disappointed sigh could be heard from several places on the table as the moogle hopped down from his chair to retrieve the sheet of parchment that had been moved to one side to clear the way for their dinner, and it was with a downcast look that he returned to the table, detailing the local watch's request to apprehend the party of minor criminals.

'Isn't that the judge's job,' Cerran groaned, somewhat uncharacteristically for her usual temperament. 'I mean, I know I don't like them much, but they're meant to be the ones sorting out pickpockets in town, and the pay's barely more than chocobo scratchings.'

'A fool's errand.' Krjn's tone was nothing but dismissive and contemptuous, leaving no doubt as to where she stood on the matter. 'Petty thieves all, they'll have melted away back to their farms and villages by now, leaving naught but a cold trail.'

Marché remained silent, understanding that his two friends probably knew more about this type of work than he did. Work they may well need, but the bounty had clearly stated that payment would be issued on capture, and without a trail to follow, all that they would be signing up for would be several days in the wilderness following footpads that were no longer to be found.

'A good job I picked up this then, isn't it.' Monid's grin was wide as he reached into a pocket, pulling out a crumpled and stained piece of parchment that he tossed onto the table, where it was immediately snatched up by Cerran.

'Seems like a band of enterprising young lads have set up camp out in the Nubswood and have taken to raiding nearby estates in force, making off with anything that's not nailed down.' Monid drained the remainder of his tankard before continuing as Cerran scanned the parchment, evading Montblanc's enthusiastic attempts to divest her of it, her interest peaking as she reached the proposed payment. 'A couple of mates of mine work out that way and aren't too happy with getting clubbed over the head every couple of weeks, so they posted a bill.'

'So we get to go down to the Nubswood and explain a few things to them,' Cerran concluded, finally surrendering the parchment to an excited Montblanc. 'Well, it's outside the judge's jurisdiction and the pay's not too shabby, so sounds good to me.'

'Was going to suggest we take a run down there tomorrow, but since you set me up with that caravan job you should be able to handle it without me.' Monid belched loudly, drawing exasperated looks from everyone but Cerran and Marché, which he roundly ignored. 'Provides more sport than a gang of phantom pickpockets anyway, and we know where this lot are holed up.'

'It is decided then,' Krjn's words were more of a statement than a question, effectively sealing the deal as she made her own perusal of the job offer. In truth, Marché wasn't sure how he would fare when facing living, breathing people in combat, but he certainly wasn't about to reveal his insecurities to his new companions. He would just have to handle the situation as best he could when it came to it.

That settled, Krjn and Ma'kenroh moved to clear the table as the rest moved to more comfortable positions in the chairs scattered round the open fireplace, which roared and crackled into a hearty blaze as Cerran added more fuel. This done, she allowed herself to sprawl out in one of the armchairs, uncaring of how ungainly or unladylike she looked as she closed her eyes and sighed in contentment.

'Well, at least we all have some paying work for once now,' Monid celebrated their good fortune by returning to the ale barrel for another tankard, while Montblanc removed a dusty bottle of wine and an elegant decanter of some rose-coloured spirit from a low cupboard, precariously bringing both over to the circle of chairs around the fireplace as the two bottles warred with the moogle's small stature. 'That's something to celebrate, if anything is.'

'Indeed,' Krjn dried her hands from the task of washing the various bowls and cutlery, the sage slowly padding over behind her. 'If we are to be speaking of a well-deserved reward for a job well done though, I would say that we have one other thing to commemorate.'

Marché and the rest looked on curiously as she headed for the doorway to where she had left her bag, while Ma'kenroh settled himself on what looked to be a large beanbag. Swiftly untying the knots, she drew out two drawstring bags that she tossed in the direction of Marché and Cerran, who both caught them effortlessly. Marché couldn't help himself, slightly loosening the drawstring to peek inside he was greeted by the unmistakeable gleam of gold. Eyes widening rapidly, he quickly looked to Krjn for an explanation, who was happy to provide one.

'Your payment for the gemstones you retrieved during your little jaunt up into the mountains the other day, a little over two and a half thousand gil in total.' Both humes present caught each other's gaze and could only stare in shock at the amount. Once split, the sum of over twelve hundred gil each would go a long way to giving the two of them a certain amount of financial security for the coming months, even if they chose to indulge themselves a bit. Krjn, however, wasn't finished with delivering her news. 'Each.'

It was, perhaps, indicative of the shock this particular announcement brought that Montblanc could not even squeak an excited _'kupo'_ in response, although Monid more than made up for it with a coughing fit and a spray of beer that reached the other half of the room.'

'Each!'

'It would seem that your professor is more generous that could have been hoped for,' Krjn helped herself to a delicate glass of the rose-coloured spirits Montblanc had removed from the cabinet before taking up the entire length of the sofa as she stretched herself out. 'Either that or he does not realise the true value of what he has given, which is an unlikely prospect given that such matters are his specialty.'

'So what are you going to spend yours on, kupo?' Montblanc's high pitched squeak gave away his excitement. In truth, Marché couldn't think of anything that he particularly needed, as his pack and effects were all he needed for the road and his gladius, shield and breastplate were perfectly serviceable. Try as he might though, he couldn't help but cast his mind back to the long, elegant sabre he had tried out at the weaponsmith, remembering its perfect balance and the lethal way it cut the air with each swing. Cerran was still staring at her bag of gold with a stunned expression on her face, as if she couldn't believe her luck. It appeared that good deeds were occasionally rewarded after all.

'Well, I was thinking about that sword I tried out in the marketplace, but my own works fine for me, so I'm not too sure about it.' With the windfall he'd just received, and the job they had lined up, the price of the weapon wouldn't even come close to endangering his savings. Still, he couldn't help but feel a distinct attachment to the gladius that had saved his hide on several occasions.

'I say go for it kupo!'

'Aye, there's no such thing as luxury when it comes to a good weapon, as that's the only thing between you and a nasty death.' Monid had regained his composure after his explosive coughing fit, and was in the process of drawing off a couple more tankards of ale from the barrel, as well as topping up his own. 'Sometimes it's best to stick with what you're comfortable with though, so give it some thought.'

'Thanks guys, I think I will,' Marché grinned at the pair of them, putting his new-found wealth to one side for the moment.

'Enough of all that though, as I think this calls for a toast,' Monid dumped the two extra tankards in front of Marché and Cerran, before theatrically raising his own into the air. 'To Professor Auggie and his wandering scribe, who have made the rest of us regret we didn't follow Cerran's example and chase this hothead up that damned mountain, may we all find such generous benefactors to shower us with gil.'

'Here, here.'

'Indeed, friend bangaa.'

'Kupo!'

Marché and Cerran laughed as three tankards clashed together, the others adding their own comments as they raised their own, more refined beverages. The brew that the bangaa had supplied was bitter, and carried not nearly as nice a taste as the mead that he had experienced in _The Jolly Seeq_, although it did seem to get more palatable as time went on. Outside, the world faded into darkness as six unlikely friends talked, laughed and drank late into the night, allowing the worries and problems that had plagued them to be washed away by the warmth of their companionship. Marché could only wish, much later of course, that someone had taken the time to warn him about the hangover.


	8. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7.**

The stew looked unappetising at best, and a recipe for an immediate trip to the bathroom at worst. Never mind that it had been delicious the night before, or that he had made it, Marché eyed the bowl of reheated leftovers with the bleary-eyed suspicion of a man who was suffering. Somewhere between the merriment of the previous evening and waking up that morning, his stomach had taken on the characteristics of a washing machine, his skull had become the drilling site for a particularly persistent jackhammer and his tongue had grown fur.

Following the example of the equally miserable blonde opposite, he mechanically shovelled in a few spoonfuls before pushing it away with a groan and burying his head in his hands. Next to him, the presence of a long snout plastered against the tabletop spoke louder than any words the mute suffering of the bangaa present.

'Well, it would appear that it is a particularly fine morning outside.' Krjn's tone was cheerful, somewhat gloating and definitely unwelcome considering how he was feeling. Marché could only surmise that the viera was getting a perverse sense of pleasure out of seeing their suffering, as the liquor she had consumed the previous evening appeared to have had no effect whatsoever. 'So, just how fares these three members of our illustrious company on this day?'

Marché viewed her through one half-opened eye as the smell of freshly brewed coffee filled the room, causing his stomach to lurch one more time. Cerran, by this point, had seemingly decided that Monid had the right idea and had rested her head on the table, abandoning all appearance of wakefulness. Trying valiantly to settle his stomach, Marché reached for a piece of dry bread, swallowing with some difficulty as he shot Krjn an evil look. 'Cerran, do you still have that piece of fire magicite kicking around?'

'It's in my pack, why?'

'Because there's some place I need to stick it.'

Cerran snorted with laughter despite her condition as Krjn rolled her eyes, pouring out three cups of a searingly strong black coffee that she deposited in front of them. Apparently roused back into action by the injection of humour, she raised her head, reclaimed her bowl and began eating her breakfast again. A slug of coffee later and Marché joined her, strangely feeling a little more whole again with each spoonful and swig he took. Monid remained half-comatose, his snout firmly planted on the table.

'Anyone seen Montblanc and Ma'kenroh yet?' Marché, like Cerran and Monid had awoken late that morning, and their only movement so far had been to stumble downstairs to the table, where Cerran had reluctantly shoved the remainder of the pot of stew back onto the heat to provide them with breakfast.

'Ma'kenroh has much the same tolerance for such beverages as I, and so left early in response to a request from the mages guild.' Marché presumed that the three of them had still been asleep at that point and simply nodded. 'Montblanc, however, I believe you will be lucky to see before noon; he has no tolerance for alcohol.'

'That's about right,' Monid's voice was croaky and hoarse as he finally raised his head, tossing back the coffee in a single motion before doing the same with his breakfast. 'Haven't met a moogle yet that can handle their drink, and that one's the worst.'

'Indeed, I put him to his bed long before the rest of you ceased carousing.'

'Well, it's been a while since we had something to carouse about,' Monid's growl was almost back to normal as he poured himself another coffee, tossing it back in much the same manner as the first. 'Speaking of which, I'd best get signed on with that caravan if I want to bring my pay home.'

With that, he shook himself, placed his cup back onto the table and shambled towards the door, picking up his polearm and recoiling only slightly as brilliant sunshine filled the room. Marché's recoil was more than slight as what felt like spears of light drilled into his head and he swiftly turned away, following Monid's example of requiring more coffee before he could legitimately face the day.

'Well, I'm going to hit the sack for another hour,' Cerran yawned, before rinsing her cup and bowl off in the sink and stumbling off upstairs, Krjn watching her with an amused gaze before she retired to a chair by the fireplace and began the painstaking process of polishing and restringing her bow. Marché watched her for a few moments before clearing his own breakfast things and heading off to the basement in search of a wash and a shave. He planned to at least check out the marketplace and the weaponsmith's stall before heading out to the Nubswood with the others.

Fifteen minutes later, with a change of clothes and feeling refreshed and slightly peeled from his encounter with a razor blade, Marché sauntered through town in the direction of the marketplace, finally somewhat recovered from the morning's hangover. His gladius, of course, was belted to his waist as normal, but unlike the last time he had taken a stroll in that direction he had taken the time to don the leather breastplate and padded undershirt that were his last line of defence against hostility. After the incident involving the Judgemaster's personal henchmen the previous day, he wasn't taking any chances any more, even within the relative safety of the fortress city.

Marché glanced up at the high towers of the fortress as he walked, his eyes taking in the banner that flew proudly at the highest point, signifying the presence of the Judgemaster on his inspection tour of the city. Inwardly seething as he recalled how the two bangaa in the marketplace had treated the young trader, Marché could only hope that he wouldn't have cause to cross the man at any point in the future. A part of him, however, that part that had half drawn his weapon on the bangaa before Montblanc had been able to stop him, that part that had stood up to the bullies tormenting Mewt, that part that had charged off to find professor Auggie because it was the right thing to do, that part was just itching for a reason to try.

Either way, Marché knew that he would have to be on his guard in this unforgiving world, as one misstep could land him in serious trouble. Nodding to a passing member of the city watch, he tried to put such thoughts out of his head as he entered the marketplace and made his way over to the weaponsmith's stall. Despite his intimidating demeanour, the quietly-spoken man proved to be easygoing enough, and Marché chatted with the stallholder for some time, enjoying sharing the older man's knowledge of his craft.

True to his recollections, the weapon he'd tried the previous day was an object of beauty, its lethal edges catching and reflecting the morning light as Marché took a few practice swings. Nevertheless, Marché couldn't help but feel a certain attachment to his gladius, particularly after it had served him so well. Perhaps it was due to the fact that Doned invariably received the lion's share of any new purchases for the two brothers, but Marché had always treasured the few small things that were his and his alone. Mind made up, he placed the sabre back onto the rack and instead chose an elegantly crafted, but sturdy looking dagger to complement his existing armaments.

Soon enough, traffic in the marketplace began to slowly increase, and Marché bid farewell to the man, making his way back through the streets in the direction of the clan hall. At the weaponsmith's suggestion his new dagger was hidden away in the top of one of his boots, nicely concealed by his clothing. While its presence would take some getting used to, having a backup weapon would be useful if he was ever disarmed. If nothing else, it would give Monid a shock the next time he pulled such a trick in their sparring sessions.

It was about halfway back that a pair of local watchmen positioned at an intersection effectively brought him to a halt. Beyond them, lined up in crisp ranks and clad in the same silver and blue capes as the pair of thugs from the marketplace, detachments of menacing-looking bangaa trudged their way down a wide thoroughfare in the direction of the aerodrome. Looking towards the head of the column, Marché got a glimpse of a tall, broad-shouldered man with an almost leonine mane of chestnut hair, clad in a heavy suit of burnished armour that reflected the sun's rays as he marched.

Just for a brief moment, Marché experienced a flash of recognition, but quickly shook it off as the massed ranks pressed on, blocking his view. The very thought was impossible, and Marché pushed the notion to one side, turning his attention back to the marching bangaa, eyeing their arrogant posturing with some distaste as he waited for the column to pass. Seconds turned to minutes as the display of military might tramped onwards and distaste turned to boredom, Marché allowing his mind to wander as the interminable delay continued.

'Kweh!'

The next thing that Marché knew, as his mind caught up with events, was that he was resting on his back, the loud cry next to his ear having shocked him out of his trance and onto the floor. A large orange and yellow beak, along with a pair of intelligent, beady eyes filled his vision, and Marché was suddenly glad he was alone. Any one of his fellow clan-mates, Cerran especially, wouldn't have let him live it down if they found out about his predicament.

'Kupo!' The shrill exclamation was higher than he was used to, and his view of the inquisitive face of the chocobo was suddenly replaced by the hovering form of a young moogle clad in a pastel pink summer dress, whose body was apparently slim and light enough to allow its wings to enable some form of flight, even if they had to beat like a hummingbird's to facilitate it. 'Bad Boko, are you hurt kupo?'

'Just a bruised ego,' Marché groaned as he hauled himself to his feet, eyeing up both the chocobo and its apparent owner, who was currently hovering at around chest height, her body held almost horizontally as it dangled from her fluttering wings. The two looked back at him with curiosity and concern respectively, and while Marché wasn't too familiar with the finer points of chocobo-craft, the markings were distinctive enough that he did recognise this one. It was the same smelly beast that had accompanied them all the way from Cyril. 'You wouldn't happen to know Montblanc, by any chance would you?'

'He's my brother, kupo, how did you know?'

'I recognised your feathered friend here,' Marché gestured towards the chocobo, who seemed to take that as an invitation as it butted its beak up against his hand. He grudgingly obliged the bird, scratching it under its chin if only to stop the inquisitive beak from prodding anywhere else. 'He carried our supplies for us on the road last week.'

'So, you're his new friend, kupo!' The young moogle's expression brightened as she made the connection, tugging on the chocobo's reins slightly to dissuade it from pestering Marché any further. 'I'm Gurdy, and you've already met Boko here.'

For his part, Marché was glad that the large animal was so tractable, as there would be no way that the moogle would be able to prevent it from doing anything it put its mind to if it really wanted. A brief smirk graced his face as he imagined the chocobo hightailing it down the street, towing its tiny owner behind it and trailing a despairing cry of _kupooooo_ in its wake_._

'I'm Marché.'

'My brother spoke highly of you, kupo,' Gurdy squeaked, causing Marché to duck his head and blush slightly at the small creature's praise. 'I wasn't expecting him to bring Boko back yet, but Montblanc said that you helped take days off the mission.'

'I didn't do that much,' Marché ran his hands through his flyaway hair, idly rubbing his head as he tried to puzzle out just how he had saved them any time. Perhaps the only explanation was his presence serving to curtail Montblanc's tendency to wander off for a spot of unplanned sightseeing, but even then he couldn't see how it could have made all that big a difference. 'Do you let the clan borrow your chocobo a lot?'

'I rent Boko out to anyone who needs to transport things or get somewhere quickly, kupo,' Gurdy shrugged, fluttering her wings until she stood firmly on the chocobo's back, apparently tired of hovering on the spot. 'I'd like to do more, but Boko's the only chocobo I have.'

'You want to expand?'

'I want a ranch, kupo, with lots of different chocobos to raise and hire out to people that need them.' A faraway look played across her features as she contemplated the issue, and Marché couldn't help but read the note of longing in her tone. 'Until I've saved enough gil though, I can't expand my stable any more, and breeding females are expensive.'

There wasn't really much that Marché could say to that, although he could understand the sentiment. While he might not have cared for the large, stinking animals outside of when they appeared on a breakfast menu, he could certainly understand the desire to do well in life and chase a dream. Indeed, what was getting home from Ivalice if not a faraway dream that he didn't yet know how to make real.

Marché relaxed as the delay pressed on, the two of them chatting about inconsequential matters until the road re-opened, the local watch keeping things bottled up until well after the Judgemaster's forces had passed on their way to the aerodrome. Eventually though, traffic was allowed to resume and he bid farewell to the young moogle before allowing his steps to take him back to the familiar squat grey building that served as the clan hall. Not seeing any signs of life from the outside, he pushed open the door to reveal a scene that he was almost coming to expect.

'Banbangaa!'

Marché rolled his eyes as he entered the gloomy common room, taking in the competitors in what appeared to be a rather entertaining and vocal argument, replete with arm-waving, finger-pointing and the tousled form of a clearly suffering moogle caught in the middle.

'As I have said on many an occasion friend bangaa, you are the only member of said race in the clan,' Ma'kenroh brandished his staff as he made his response, somehow managing to look both stern and imposing despite his stature. 'Why, therefore, would we even contemplate naming this clan after a bangaa festival, which I might add is little more than an excuse for drinking, fighting, carousing and mating.'

'And what's wrong with that?'

Marché couldn't help but snort with laughter as he surveyed the argument, the two seeming evenly matched in their delivery. Monid's passion and histrionics were effectively met by Ma'kenroh's cool logic and firm rebukes, while the nu mou's counter offers of names so learnéd and scholarly as to baffle Marché's mind were easily shot down with catcalls of derision from the bangaa. The two were clearly enjoying themselves immensely.

'Just how long has this been going on?' Marché sidled over to a rather amused paladin, who was leaning against one of the armchairs enjoying the spectacle of the event.

'You have no idea,' Cerran grinned at him, her eyes sparkling with mirth. 'The rest of us couldn't care less what the clan is called, but these two have been going at it hammer and tongs over a name since we got together; it drives Montblanc mad, especially when he's hung-over.'

Marché smirked as he looked at the smallest member of the gathering, sitting at the table with his head in his hands, who was clearly still experiencing the fallout from the night before and who seemed to wilt with each fresh salvo of argument from the two. Marché idly wondered if they'd subconsciously scheduled their latest encounter to coincide with his waking.

'Stop it, stop it, stop it!'

All eyes turned to Montblanc as the argument ceased abruptly, Monid cut off in mid rant by the sudden outburst while Ma'kenroh blinked several times in surprise, seemingly taking note of the moogle's presence for the first time.

'Has this ever happened before?' Marché queried Cerran in a low, conspiratorial tone as the paladin raised one eyebrow at the development.

'Not that I can remember,' Cerran smirked back at him, seemingly eager to see what would happen next. 'He's always just let them get on with it before.'

'Please make them stop, kupo,' Montblanc's tone was plaintive as he turned his attention to Marché. 'I know, in recognition of your joining the clan, we'll let you think of a name for it!'

'Me?'

'Why not, kupo?' The sudden idea had seemingly caught Montblanc's imagination, despite the cries of protest from both bangaa and nu mou that threatened to drown him out. 'You can call it anything you like, so make it a kupo name, something like Clan Nutsy!'

'He's finally lost it,' Cerran speculated as the others eyed the young moogle with open-mouthed disbelief. 'Either they dropped him on his head when he was a young leveret, or all that drink last night did for his brain; Clan Nutsy?'

'Well, I thought it was a good idea, kupo.'

Marché was suddenly aware of four pairs of eyes being trained in his direction, along with a growing sense of expectation. All it would have needed was for Krjn to have been present and he'd have had the entire set for intimidation purposes. Of course, the fact that Cerran was struggling not to dissolve into fits of laughter at his predicament wasn't helping.

'Er, well okay,' Marché slowly started, before settling himself down on the arm of the sofa to think, idly adjusting his gladius into a more comfortable position as he did so. He was well aware that whatever he said next would undoubtedly stay with him for a long time, in a good or a bad way. 'Sorry Montblanc, but I don't think I'll be using Clan Nutsy.'

'Thank all the gods for that,' Cerran muttered to herself, earning a somewhat hurt look from the moogle. 'In fact, let's not have Montblanc name anything again, ever.'

Marché grinned at her, even as she turned her attention back to him in anticipation of his official naming of the clan. Casting about, he tried to think of any name that would sound heroic or impressive, but rejected each one in turn as too cheesy or obvious. One thought, however, did stay with him, inspired perhaps by the gladius at his waist as he remembered his last history lesson with Mr Leslaie.

'There was this army in my world once that took over almost an entire continent, and they didn't do it because of numbers, but because of how well trained they were, and how well they worked together and out-thought the enemy.' Marché looked to the ceiling as he attempted to recall the lessons, Ritz's voice coming strongly to the fore as she provided answers in her usual confident manner. 'The best of them were called Centurions and led them into battle, so centurion, centuria, how about Clan Centurio?'

'Wow, that's actually pretty good,' there was a moment of silence before Cerran at least voiced her agreement, the expression on her face suggesting that she was secretly impressed with his suggestion in the face of extreme pressure. 'If nothing else, it'll help keep the peace around here.'

'Well, I think it's a kupo name,' Montblanc swiftly agreed before either Monid or Ma'kenroh could make any comment. 'From this day forth, we shall be known as Clan Centurio!'

Marché cast a critical eye towards the remaining two members present, both of whom had a rather deflated appearance as the central pillar of their argument was effectively removed. Monid opened his mouth as if to say something, but closed it again after a few moments and in the end it was his counterpart who took the opportunity. 'A well thought out and argued suggestion, if from a somewhat unexpected quarter; I find no difficulty in acquiescing to this.'

With approval gained from the sage, all eyes turned to the bangaa present. Cerran raised one questioning eyebrow as she did so, the look of mirth still present on her face. Slowly, the silence became oppressive as Monid's eyes darted from face to face, before he threw up his arms and harrumphed in defeat.

'Bah, but what are we going to argue about now?'

A round of sniggers and outright laughter filled the room as the tension was broken, and Marché breathed a sigh of relief as business returned to normal. It was only then that he realised that both Cerran and Montblanc were already armed and armoured, with their backpacks stacked in a heap by the door along with his own.

'I'm sure you two will think of something before too long,' Cerran concluded, before slinging her pack over her shoulder and throwing Montblanc's smaller bag over to him. 'Krjn's waiting for us though, so it's about time you got here slowcoach; what kept you?'

'Judgemaster,' Marché offered in the way of explanation before hefting his own pack onto his back and buckling on his shield.

'Git.' Cerran's response was just as succinct.

Bidding farewell to Monid and Ma'kenroh, who wished them luck before resuming preparations for their own work, the three left the security of the clan hall once more, packs shouldered in anticipation of the trek ahead. Traffic on the streets increased as they neared the city gate, with new arrivals offloading caravans full of farm produce, fish and trade goods, while outbound wagons of slate and minerals made ready for long journeys, each guarded by hard-faced swarthy men and bangaa.

Looking upwards, Marché wasn't surprised to see the addition of a vast aerial warship, bristling with gun ports and escort craft and bearing the Judgemaster's colours. It hung, ominously over the fortified city, its gleaming form looking more like a spaceship from a sci-fi movie than something from the realms of mediaeval fantasy. Slowly, the whine of its energy rings increased as they span faster and faster, growing in brightness and intensity as they did so. Surrounded by its escorts, it smoothly altered course, gaining altitude as it headed westwards over the mountains towards the palace city of Bervenia, the heart of the Rozarrian empire.

'So, Ma'kenroh not joining us then?'

'Nah, he rarely does,' Cerran glanced back over her shoulder towards him, unable to resist smirking at the still semi-comatose Montblanc, who was navigating his way down the street on auto-pilot. 'It takes something pretty special for him to get his nose out of a book, so he mostly spends time tutoring at the mages guild.'

'Think we'll be enough with just the four of us?'

'Most of these bandits are just thugs that rely on intimidation instead of skill, so we shouldn't have too much trouble,' Cerran shrugged, not seeming in the slightest bit worried at the prospect of impending combat, and a mischievous smile crossed her face as she continued. 'Chances are they'll run a mile when they see my sword and armour; hey, there's Krjn'

Marché followed her gaze, and sure enough, the lithe form of Krjn was leaning against the outer wall of the city next to the main gate, the viera seemingly indifferent to the suspicious glares of the bangaa guards that patrolled the area. Seeing their approach, she slowly made her way over to the trio, shooting an amused glance at Montblanc as she did so.

'I was beginning to think that you had perhaps returned to your beds,' Krjn smiled, before handing out parcels of supplies for each of them. 'I take it the regular animated discussion between the tribes of bangaa and nu mou has subsided without incident for the moment,'

'Yeah, we're Clan Centurio now.'

Krjn merely shook her head in exasperation at her friend's antics as the paladin breezed past her out of the main gate of Sprohm, grinning as she did so. Marché followed, breathing in the fresh mountain air with a sense of anticipation as he left the relative security of the city on his way to yet another adventure. Back at home, he'd be sat in some boring class learning about science or the rules of grammar, but here he could do just about anything he wanted. The faces of his mother and brother intruded his thoughts for a moment, but were quickly banished as he turned his attention back to Krjn and Cerran, the latter of whom was explaining about the clan's sudden naming. There was no point worrying about things he couldn't change, at least for the moment.

The trail stretched out in front of them as the four began their journey, the smallest member of the group perking up a bit as the day went on. Far down the trail the silver ribbon of the Ulei river, that they had crossed several days previous on their way from Cyril, could be seen in the valley below where it carved a wide swath through the fertile farmland it supported. Tantalising though the sight of it was, sparkling in the distance, Marché knew that even downhill and without a laden chocobo to slow them down it would be nightfall by the time they reached it, and a further few days travel downriver along its banks to reach the Nubswood, which formed part of the vast swathes of lush woodlands that separated them from the flood plains and marshes near the city of Cadoan, where the Ulei eventually flowed out into the sea.

Fortunately, the weather was kind to them as they made their way down the trail passing caravans and the occasional lone traveller, with a light headwind to provide a refreshing breeze as the sun climbed higher into the sky. Despite Marché's initial fears about Montblanc's ability to keep pace with his three larger companions, the young moogle managed quite easily, his hare-like legs propelling him forward with surprising speed. Marché couldn't help but smirk as he imagined him holding a pocket watch and exclaiming _'I'm late, I'm late.'_

Behind them the city of Sprohm disappeared, obscured by the rugged terrain that made for a natural barrier to assault and the miles were quickly eaten up by the easy banter that passed between the four friends. Perhaps he was simply becoming adjusted to the rigours of such a life, but Marché's feet barely protested as his boots resumed what was now becoming a familiar tread, although the constant weight of the heavy shield on his arm was starting to drag him down.

Nevertheless, by the time the sun was sinking below the horizon the rocky boulders and towering cliffs had long given way to the lush agricultural land of the Ulei basin. Fields of ripe crops stood in close proximity to pens full of domesticated cockatrice and what looked to be wild boar, the locals taking full advantage of the fertile ground provided by the mighty watercourse to extract the maximum rewards from their lands. Most of the food was destined for the city high above, and the local populace appeared relatively prosperous from the constant trade caravans that left groaning with meat and grain.

They stayed the night in a simple farming community that was much as Marché imagined communities would have been before the advent of modern technology and industry. The locals, rugged and weather-beaten, though initially suspicious of the group of armed strangers in their midst, warmed up to them as the evening went on, particularly as coin was presented and Cerran's status as a paladin of Kiltia was revealed. Her willingness to dispense her healing magics for anyone in need quickly led to a long queue for her services, the young woman not seeking out her bed until late in the night as she dealt with every possible ailment from the lingering contusions from a bar brawl to a small child's fever with equal cheer.

Not that her late night work had any detrimental effect on her demeanour the following morning as she resumed their journey in even higher spirits than before, her healing sessions seemingly rejuvenating her as much as they had her patients, and the group were waved on their way to smiles and offers to return at any time, the grateful locals loading them down with fruit, cold meat and freshly prepared lunches to last them through the day. It was difficult, given his friend's youthful and mischievous mannerisms to reconcile the image he had of Cerran with that of some priestly figure, but Marché was quickly coming to understand just how much respect her chosen profession accorded her. It also made her decision to leave her comfortable position at the temple to join Montblanc's band of idealists all the more intriguing to Marché.

Reaching the banks of the Ulei, they turned South-East, travelling downriver as they followed the directions on the crude map provided by Monid, backed up by the more accurate document that Marché had forgotten to return to Telrys after his last job was complete. Marché hoped the young scribe wouldn't get into trouble for losing his professor's map like that, but he was now loath to part with what was proving to be such a useful resource. Every other map and set of directions he had seen or received since coming to Ivalice were mere badly drawn approximations in comparison, and so Marché was taking care to keep his new map in as pristine condition as he could.

All along the course of the river, fishermen stood waist deep in the slowly swirling current, casting their nets while small boats dotted her surface, casting lines and nets to relieve the river of its bounty. Further out still, almost half a mile away in the centre of the huge channel, larger barges and merchant boats carried their heavy loads of stone and logs up or downstream to their destinations.

It was, Marché mused, a far nicer start to a journey than their scorching exit from Cyril, and he allowed his mind to wander as he took in the natural beauty of the farmland. It would be several days before the pastures and fields of crops would begin to give way to verdant woodlands of picturesque glades, gnarled oaks and fragrant moss, echoing with birdsong and the chattering of small animals that peered at them from their camouflaged perches amidst the branches. A sense of anticipation began to build in Marché as they came within a few miles of the reported location of the raider camp, Krjn constantly ranging ahead through treetop and underbrush like a ghost searching for her prey. It was a prey she found in the early morning of their sixth day out of Sprohm as the mists wreathed through the trees and undergrowth of the Nubswood, giving everything a washed out and surreal look.

'They are ahead.'

'How many?' Cerran was all business, slowly unhooking her great sword from its usual resting place on the back of her armour, taking care minimise the amount of noise she made as her face took on a grim expression.

'Nine, and two others beside.'

'Others, kupo?'

'Indeed,' Krjn's bow was held ready, an arrow already set into the string and half drawn in preparation. 'The bandits accost two travellers in a clearing ahead, one hume female and one viera, and I fear their threats and intimidation will shortly escalate to more.'

'Doesn't sound like a fair fight to me,' Marché's grip tightened on his gladius, pushing his emotions to the back of his mind as he prepared for the inevitable, slowly drawing his blade and seeking out each of his companions by eye. 'Why don't we see if we can make it a little more sporting?'

Receiving grim nods of confirmation, he ditched his pack in the undergrowth and started forward through the woodland mists as quickly as he dared without causing too much noise, using all the cover he could muster until he reached the final tree line before the clearing Krjn had mentioned, where the press of the trees gave way to a bubbling stream on its way to join up with the mighty Ulei. Seeing no ongoing warfare, he paused, crouching down to observe the situation closer as two shadowy figures faced off against a group of aggressors on the other side.

'Haven't you anything better to do than waylay innocent travellers you bunch of two-bit swindlers?'

That voice. Marché's breath hitched in his throat as the clear, strong tones carried easily through the morning air. A myriad of images and memories flooded through his mind, all of them associated with a single face. He was moving before the bandit even had a chance to reply, sword and shield held ready for action.

'Don't you ever give up,' a hulking, shadowy figure loomed out of the mist at the head of his comrades, a massive bow gripped in both hands and his features obscured by the gloomy half-light of dawn as he growled the question. 'You're outnumbered and alone, so hand over your trinkets and maybe I'll let you go without taking everything else I want from you.'

The lecherous intent in the bandit's tone was clear as Marché approached to back the two up, who had yet to notice him as they focused on the threat in front of them. The thug was clearly used to getting his own way and Marché wouldn't trust him as far as he could throw him. There would only be one outcome to this confrontation, it was just a question of who would attack first. Oddly enough, the thought of raising his weapon against the man in front of him didn't raise any feelings of guilt or apprehension any more. Perhaps it was simply due to what was at stake.

'We wouldn't be much of an advertisement for our clan if we did that now, would we?'

The owner of the voice stood resolute, facing down the assembled group without even a tremor in her voice to indicate any nervousness. She stood tall, easily matching Marché's height, natural deep red hair cascading down her back, while her light, figure-hugging silken garments offset by intricately stitched long boots and leather armguards somehow transmitted a sense of both femininity and strength, subtly emphasising her figure. This duality continued in her choice of weapon, an elegant and deadly rapier held competently in her grasp. It was her viera companion, however, who first noticed his presence.

'Someone comes, Ritz.'

'Ritz?'

The girl whirled round at the sound of his voice, eyes locking with Marché's own as he felt a weight lift from his shoulders. To hope that his friends could have followed him to Ivalice was one thing, but to see it in reality was another. Out of the corner of his vision, he could see his fellow clan members edging into position in expectation of the upcoming fight, Krjn and Montblanc trying to find optimum firing positions while the solid, dependable form of Cerran held her massive sword ready, moving into position to back up his reckless advance. None of that mattered though since Ritz was standing in front of him, and surely if she had found her way here then the others were also waiting to be found, somewhere out there in Ivalice.

'Marché?'

'You know of this boy, Ritz?'

'He's a friend,' Ritz smiled, holding his gaze as Marché returned the gesture, simply enjoying the moment. 'He's a friend from the other world.'

'Oy, I'm talking to you here!'

The two swung their attention back to the stocky man on the other side of the stream, who was seemingly getting annoyed by the lack of attention he was receiving. Marché raised an eyebrow at Ritz as she smirked in his direction. The odds, previously stacked well in the bandits' favour, had seemingly changed.

'Not friends of yours, I take it?'

'Nah, just a bunch of bandits living round here,' Ritz grinned at him, clearly enjoying the banter between them. 'We could have taken them, really.'

'And make me miss out on the bounty?' Marché took a step forward, not so subtly edging Ritz out as he put himself to the fore. 'I'll introduce the rest of the guys later.'

Ignoring the harrumph of annoyance from Ritz, Marché leapt from boulder to boulder over the stream, shield advanced and wary of the huge bow in the large thug's grasp. Seeing where the situation was going, the man growled in his direction before taking a few steps backwards, waving his comrades forward into the fight while he drew the bow to its maximum, letting loose an arrow that Marché instinctively ducked. It sailed harmlessly into the woods, impacting a nearby tree with a firm thud. _'Coward'_ Marché thought, before further thoughts of the ringleader were made impossible as battle was joined.

Marché caught the wild swing of a sword on his shield with a resounding clang before stepping forwards, propelling his off-balance opponent onto his back with a hefty shove, the man's sword clattering out of his hand as he hit the deck. His combat persona taking full control, Marché didn't give him the chance to rise, slamming the toe of his boot into the man's nose with bone shattering force as he vainly tried to struggle into a sitting position. He slumped backwards and out of the fight as quickly as he had entered it.

Beside him, Ritz flew into combat with her own opponent, a wiry, unshaven individual with a thoroughly disreputable appearance. She almost effortlessly parried a low thrust from a long, serrated dagger, a quick twist of her wrist sending it flying through the air out of his grip. Stepping back slightly, she did not give him time to reach for his backup, raising her free hand as a grim look of concentration overtook her features. Her palm glowed a sooty red for the briefest of moments before, with a loud crack, a deep crimson mass of flames blasted through the air, taking him off his feet and lighting up his clothes like a match. With a screech of terror the man scrambled away, clawing at his clothing as he made for the water of the stream.

'Everyone uses magic but me,' Marché grumbled to himself before taking stock of the situation. Five of the enemy were already down, one curled into a foetal position, groaning pitifully with one of Krjn's long arrows protruding from his stomach while another lay still, passed out from the pain as his shield lay cleaved in two and his arm hung at an unnatural angle. The rest of the bandits, Marché noted, were giving Cerran a wide berth having gained a certain amount of respect for her blade and abilities.

Behind him, Marché couldn't help but smile at the scene involving Montblanc, one particularly unfortunate bandit futilely beating his fists against the waist deep water of the stream that had turned into solid ice around him, the young moogle's paw glowing an Arctic blue to match as he finished the job by icing up Ritz's human torch as well. Both Krjn and Ritz's companion loosed a further two arrows in the direction of the remaining thugs, but were defeated by hastily raised shields. The time for ranged combat, it appeared, had passed. Marché glanced towards Ritz, a quick nod confirming that she was ready as the two advanced on the remaining enemies, Marché sensing Cerran's presence behind him as they did so. He wasn't surprised when the bandits' leader made his move also.

A spiteful buzz rent the air as an arrow sped towards its target, but Marché was already moving. Pulling Ritz in close to himself, his shield covered her body as the long arrow impacted with a ringing clang.

'Thanks,' A breath of relief and a quick nod and they were moving once more, Marché keeping a wary eye on the archer, who was glaring at them across the open ground.

'Any time,' Marché smiled, simply relieved that she was safe. 'I sure didn't expect to find you here, Ritz.'

'Likewise,' The enemy was close now, and Marché couldn't spare the time to glance over to her as she spoke. 'I'd never have expected you to be in a clan of all things, fighting like this.'

'Really, why not?'

'It's just you were so… timid, in the other world.'

Marché didn't reply to that. In fact, he wasn't sure that there was a way to reply to that. After all, it was mostly true. He had always taken a back seat except when it had been absolutely necessary, such as the altercation between Mewt and the three bullies

'You've changed here too, haven't you?' Ritz's follow up comment was almost pensive as the two stepped forward into combat once more, giving Marché no time to even think of a response. 'I know I have.'

Marché lashed out with his sword, only to be hurriedly blocked by his opponent's shield, who instantly returned the favour. Beyond him, Marché could see the leader circling slowly, waiting for the perfect moment to fire into the melee, while behind him he knew the two viera and possibly Montblanc if he'd found his own way across the stream, would be looking to do the same for them. A stroke of luck was all it took for Marché to end it, a trip on the uneven ground providing just enough of an opening to lunge under his opponent's shield, the gladius piercing through leather armour and sliding deep into the man's side. Not a fatal wound, but Marché's gorge rose nonetheless, the sensation travelling up the blade and the look of shock on his enemy's face sickening enough. Wrenching the blade free, he slammed the hilt into the man's jaw before leaping over him towards the leader, one swift strike separating the bow into two halves before the bloody tip of Marché's sword pressed under the bandit's chin.

'Don't make me do it.'

The surrender of their leader signalled the end of any further resistance, the remaining two fighters throwing down their weapons in defeat before Cerran immediately set about giving what basic healing she could to the downed men, enough to make sure that none of the wounded succumbed to their injuries anyway.

'Are you okay, Ritz?'

'It's strange for you to be worried about me Marché,' Ritz appraised him with a warm smile, wiping her rapier clean and placing it back in its sheath, before straightening out her long red hair behind her. 'Thanks though, we couldn't have done it without you.'

With the battle over, the inevitable clean-up began, Montblanc retrieving their packs from back in the woods while the rest of them concentrated on either providing what medical assistance they could or herding the disarmed, demoralised and in two cases freezing bandits into a miserable huddle of humanity. Satisfied that their captives were in no shape to cause any further mischief, Krjn vanished into the woodland, her skills as a tracker ensuring that there were no further surprises waiting nearby. Marché and Ritz, however, took the opportunity to wander away from the group, seeking a measure of privacy while Cerran stood watch over the prisoners.

'This is Shara, my fellow clan member,' Marché nodded towards the viera at Ritz's introduction of her companion, introducing himself in kind. Though she seemed aloof, Marché was glad that Ritz had also found someone to watch over her during her early days in Ivalice. 'Like I said before, he's a friend from the other world.'

'Speaking of worlds, do you know what this place is?'

'I'd have thought you of all people would have figured that one out,' Ritz smirked at him, even as his eyes took in her appearance. 'This is Mewt's book and everything in it, but it's all become real.'

'What do you mean, it's become real?'

'Well, at first I thought I'd really fallen into the book, but now I know that can't be the case.' Ritz turned away slightly, running her hand down the bark of a nearby tree trunk while she gazed off into space, her mind seemingly far away. 'There are too many things that are the same in our world and too many coincidences, so I think this is St. Ivalice and all our world around it, it's just been changed to what it is now.'

'But that's crazy, Ritz,' Marché couldn't help but throw up his hands in disbelief, his exasperation bleeding through into his voice. 'How could that have even happened?'

'I'm trying not to think about it.'

'Huh?'

'There just doesn't seem to be much point,' Ritz turned back to face him, a new resolve clear in her expression. 'It's not like it changes anything.'

'Why not?'

Marché couldn't help but question Ritz's statement. There was a hell of a lot that could be done, and the two of them could perhaps begin the search for a way to return to the world they knew, or at the very least work to find more answers. Ritz's expression remained unreadable though as she either wouldn't or couldn't answer him, and in the end it was her companion who did so for her.

'You see, Ritz does not want to go back.'

Marché looked to the girl before him for a long moment, a slow sense of disbelief filling him up from within. He opened his mouth to question it, but no sound came forth and he closed it once more, swallowing heavily as he tried to take stock of exactly what the viera had said.

'It's like Shara says, why go back?' When she finally spoke, Ritz's voice was still the same strong, clear tone he was used to, but there was something of an undercurrent, a slight shift that Marché couldn't quite tell the reason for, and which quite frankly didn't seem too important at that moment. 'I mean, I like this world, and what I can do here; don't you Marché?'

It was something that Marché had contemplated, with all that he had experienced so far in Ivalice, from the sights and sounds to magic being real and being able to act as an adult, not burdened by rules or chores or school, taking jobs and standing on his own two feet. Nevertheless, the images of his family and friends from home had always called to him, convincing him to return.

'Well, I…'

'Look, Marché, If you want to go ahead and try to turn everything back to normal just… go ahead,' Marché couldn't help but focus on the long pause in her reply, along with the disappointment he could see in her eyes and hear in her voice, but couldn't focus enough to compose a reply. 'Just don't expect me to help you do it.'

Marché could only stand and watch as she stepped back, not quite able to look him in the eye any more. From across the clearing he could hear Cerran call out to him, but he ignored her as he kept his attention on the girl he considered to be a good friend, despite the short length of time he'd known her. The feeling of relief and happiness he'd experienced at seeing her present in Ivalice had been tangible, but now that feeling had been ripped away.

'Let's go, Shara.'

'Ritz?'

Ritz turned on her heel, as if to walk out of the clearing, but paused before turning back, briefly meeting his gaze and swiftly covering the few paces between them, wrapping her arms around him and burying her face into his neck as she squeezed him tightly. Marché simply held her, looking down at a mass of red hair as he felt the warmth of her body through the thin silk of her clothing. After a few moments, she pulled away with a sniff, holding him at arms length.

'I'm sorry, Marché, but I'm sure we'll meet again.' She paused for a moment, her eyes taking in his face as if committing it to memory before letting him go and stepping back again. 'I… am glad we met, really.'

With a last smile in his direction, she turned and walked back to the tree line with her head held high. Marché didn't try to stop her, having known her long enough to know that any attempt would be futile. She had already made her decision, even if he couldn't understand why. Ritz had a family back home and, of all of them, the most going for her back in St. Ivalice and the most reason to return. Still, Marché supposed it was her choice, and was glad that she still considered him a friend. She paused slightly as she reached the edge of the clearing, glancing back towards him.

'I'll see you around, Ritz?'

'Bye for now, Marché'

With that, Ritz and Shara slipped away into the trees, disappearing into the dense woodland together and leaving Marché standing alone in the clearing. He watched the place they had vanished for a few moments before another shout from across the clearing brought him out of his reverie. However things would work out with Ritz, he still had a job to finish, and the work would probably help him take his mind off things, at least for a little while. Shaking his head, he made his way across the clearing to where Cerran and Montblanc stood guard over the prisoners.

'So, where'd your friend disappear to, loverboy?' Cerran joked as he approached, shooting him a mischievous grin and waggling her eyebrows suggestively. 'Getting pretty cozy there, I noticed.'

Marché didn't give her the satisfaction of a blush, though his eyes glanced back to that section of trees once more. Sooner or later, he knew that he'd see Ritz again some time, and maybe then he'd persuade her to open up about what was bothering her. Until then, he'd proceed as he had been, satisfied with the knowledge that she was well. He felt the corners of his mouth turn up into a faint smile as he turned to answer Cerran's question.

'Oh, she had to go.'


End file.
